


Bis der Tod euch scheidet

by NikoNotHere, Wahnsinn



Series: Rammstein collaborations [2]
Category: Rammstein
Genre: AU - Du hast, Alternate Universe, Angst, Animal Death, Assassination, Assassination Plot(s), Attempted Murder, Coercion, Comfort, Corporate Espionage, Emotional Hurt, Espionage, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gangsters, Guns, Heist, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Injury, Light Angst, M/M, Murder, Organized Crime, Scars, Sex, Shooting Guns, Torture, Violence, doping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 46,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24843868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikoNotHere/pseuds/NikoNotHere, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wahnsinn/pseuds/Wahnsinn
Summary: Till Lindemann barely escaped his last job alive. Now, he is tasked with leading a group of four new criminals.
Relationships: Paul Landers/Christian Lorenz | Flake
Series: Rammstein collaborations [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1797532
Comments: 76
Kudos: 58





	1. Bis der Tod euch scheidet

Watching a human burn is fascinating. The five men spent a few seconds taking it all in; the flames licking against the body, the heat, the screams. Then they turned around, and left the burning man and the old, abandoned house without looking back.

It had all started a few days earlier. As a new group, they had been ordered to get to know each other before their first assignment, and as Till locked himself into the base they had been given, he wondered which idiots he would have to group with this time.

The house was not that big. Spanning two floors, it had a kitchen, a fairly spacious living room, and a bathroom on the first floor. On the second floor, there were three bedrooms and a bigger bathroom. Till claimed the single room. _The perk of being the leader_ , he thought to himself as he quickly made himself familiar with the layout and every entry point.

“Fuck yeah, a house! With furniture!”

The loud voice from downstairs made Till roll his eyes. _Of course_ one of his new group members had to be loud. And who the hell didn’t expect a house and furniture? A mental image of some big more-muscles-than-brains buffoon formed in his head as he sighed and headed downstairs to greet the newcomer, but when he saw his new team member, he had to make an effort not to laugh.

The man was tiny. His dark hair was slicked to the side, and he was wearing an ill-fitting, black suit that had definitely seen better days.

“Oh, hi!” The small man’s face lit up as he saw Till coming down the stairs. “I’m Paul, your new partner! Man, I’m so excited to be here; you should have seen our last base. It was just an abandoned tunnel that we hung out in between jobs.” The short man continued to wander around, marveling at the decor he was apparently not used to.

A much taller man stayed close beside him, but seemed significantly less impressed by everything. He had shoulder-length blonde hair that looked dyed, as dark roots showed at the top of his head. The tall one was much thinner than his excited shorter companion, and looked almost bored as he followed the Paul one around. As he passed Till, he nodded curtly to him.

“I’m Flake,” he said in introduction, though he didn’t offer a hand or any other pleasantry. “Excuse Paul. He was cooped up a bit too long after the last job. We had to hide out for a few months.”

Till was a bit perplexed by the extremely unusual introduction, but hid it well. “Till Lindemann,” he said, making sure his voice boomed a little more than normally. “I have been assigned as the leader of this group. Flake, you said? That’s an unusual name.”

Flake just shrugged. “I suppose.”

He walked past Till and continued to trail after Paul as the small man bounced around from room to room.

 _And here I thought I’d earned myself a good group this time_ , Till thought. His old one had been a mixed bag. One of his group members had been too loose-lipped on a date with a hot woman who turned out to be bait from a rivalling team, and a few days later, they were surprised as they returned to base after a small job. Till barely escaped alive. Two of his group members were shot dead on the spot, one was severely injured, and the last one - the one who had been unable to keep it in his pants - Till had dealt with himself.

“Bedrooms are upstairs. I’m in the one to the left. You will have to share,” Till said to the two men in the living room, unsure of whether they heard him, as they seemed busy admiring the curtains.

“Fine by me!” Paul yelled back at him. “We always room together anyway.”

Shaking his head, Till headed into the kitchen. He could still hear the yapping from Paul - and he needed coffee.

Till had just put on the coffee machine when he heard someone knocking on the door. Surprised that someone would actually knock as they had all been given keys, he went to open it, only to realise that Paul had beat him to it.

“Holy shit you’re tall!” he heard Paul’s voice carrying to the entryway of the kitchen as Till walked out to the living room.

Till was about to make some comment that it was probably just Paul being small, but as he glanced at the man outside the door, he realised that yep, he _was_ really tall. Not just tall, the man seemed young. He had to be easily two metres tall, with buzz-cut hair and a handlebar moustache, and he was carrying a long bag on his back.

“Don’t just stand there, let the man in, Paul!” Till remarked as he went to greet the newcomer.

Paul snapped out of his amazement, and stepped aside, giving a sweeping bow to the especially tall man as he entered. “Welcome to the club!”

“Excuse Paul, he seems easily excitable,” Till said dryly, offering his hand to the tall man. “Welcome. Till Lindemann. Assigned leader of the group.”

The young man had a firm handshake. “Oliver Riedel. Marksman. Nice to meet you, sir.”

“You don’t have to call me sir, no one calls me sir!” Till burst out in laughter at the man’s politeness.

“Oh - I’m sorry - herr Lindemann,” Oliver seemed a little uncomfortable.

“Herr Lindemann!” Till howled, slapping the young man on his back. “You’re a good one, I like you! But I need you to call me Till, I’m not 50 yet!”

“As you wish, herr - eh - Till,” Oliver replied, looking extremely relieved when Paul spoke up to introduce himself and end the awkwardness.

“Paul Landers, pleased to meet you!” the small man greeted enthusiastically, sticking out his hand cheerfully at Oliver.

“Bedrooms are upstairs. Afraid you will have to share. Make yourself comfortable, coffee in five,” Till said, returning to the kitchen.

He heard Paul informing Oliver that he and Flake were bunkmates, so he was stuck with whoever else would be joining them.

The four of them sat in the living room drinking coffee when they heard the sound of someone locking themselves in. Soon after, their last group member joined them in the living room.

The man was impeccably dressed in a tailored suit with suspenders and a black tie, he wore dark-framed glasses, and his hair was slicked back in a way that enhanced his appealing facial features.

“Richard Z. Kruspe. How are you gentlemen doing today?” The man flashed a big, bright smile. He was really attractive, and from what Till could gather, he was also very aware of it.

Standing up, Till shook hands with Richard, introduced himself, and gestured for him to sit.

“Now that our group is complete, I think we should do proper introductions,” he started. “I’d like to welcome you all. As you know, my name is Till Lindemann, and I have been assigned to lead this group. You may have heard about the shoot-out in Pankow a few weeks ago. That was my former team.”

“The one where three died, yes,” Flake quipped. “We heard.”

“Actually, only two people died on site. The last one was dealt with later.” Till looked at Flake, no emotions showing on his face.

“As I said. Three dead.” Flake narrowed his eyes slightly, but said nothing further.

Paul shifted uncomfortably on the couch next to Flake, the tension getting to him.

“I’m Paul,” he piped up suddenly. “I handle explosives and logistics-- getting everything from one spot to another. I’m also a hell of a getaway driver.”

Flake patted his partner’s knee in acknowledgement and continued for himself, “Flake. I handle details. Anything everyone else forgets or overlooks, I manage, which is usually a lot. Paperwork, chain of command, all that. I also handle field medicine, though the less of that I have to deal with, the better.”

He looked pointedly at Till before sipping his coffee again.

Oliver had been sitting quietly, just observing the others, but when he suddenly found all eyes were on him, he spoke up.

“Oliver Riedel. Most people call me Olli. Marksman. I can handle most weapons, but the sniper rifle is my favourite,” he said, patting his long bag.

“Aren’t you a bit… young?” Richard asked, raising an eyebrow.

Oliver shrugged. “University champion, three years in a row, rifle and pistol, both on still and moving targets. Age didn’t seem important to those who recruited me.”

Richard looked impressed, nodding in appreciation of the man’s skills. “Sounds like we got a good one.”

He set his coffee cup down then and flashed another devastatingly handsome smile at the people in the room.

“Richard Z. Kruspe, though I prefer just Richard if asked. I’m the communications expert. I’ve got all the connections, everybody, everywhere. If we need something, I can get it, or find out who has it.”

Till looked around at the four others, pleasantly surprised. For once, it seemed like he had people with a good combination of skills, even though he was a bit wary of Paul’s constant chattering.

“All right. Now that we are all introduced, I have been told we will have a few days of downtime. After that, we will be handed an assignment. Make no mistake, how we handle that assignment will greatly influence what kind of jobs we will get later on, so I suggest we spend the next few days preparing and getting to know each other.”

The others nodded in agreement.

“As for sleeping arrangements - I have claimed the room on the left upstairs. You guys should sort out the other two rooms. Also, we need to pick up some food and supplies. Any volunteers?”

“I’ll do it. I need cigarettes anyway.” Richard flipped the lid on his cigarette box, fishing one out.

“I’ll write you a list,” Till said, and headed to the kitchen to check what was needed. “And smoke outside please. There is a balcony you can use.”

“Don’t forget to buy cream and sugar!” Paul hollered. “This coffee is really bitter.”

“Paul,” Flake said as he set his coffee down, “Why don’t you go pick our room?”

The short man shot up at the suggestion. “On it!” he shouted, almost bolting from the room in his hurry.

Flake got up and approached Till in the kitchen then, nodding his head to indicate he wished to speak with him alone.

“Who are you really?” the tall man asked as they moved away from Oliver, more in a demanding tone rather than an inquisitive one.

Till seemed indignant at that, which Flake apparently saw immediately.

Flake rolled his eyes, but explained in an almost condescending way, “Our last job went sour because of an incompetent lead man. It was extremely unpleasant and very annoying having to hide ourselves for months, so if I think that might be the case again, we’re pulling out. That’s why I want to know what makes you a qualified leader. Paul might act like he doesn’t care, but I do, because my priority is keeping him safe and getting us paid. I need to know details: who you are, what makes you qualified for this job, all that. More than just your name and what you were hired for.”

Refusing to acknowledge the condescending tone, Till just stared at him calmly. “Ask any question you want, and I’ll be happy to answer you.”

“What makes you a good leader? Clearly it isn’t your ability to keep your crew alive.”

Till’s expression did not change. “I don’t know how much you know about the shoot-out,” he replied. “We were set up. One of my crew members got honey trapped, and they caught us by surprise as we returned from a job. The only reason we didn’t all die on the spot was the precautions I had taken with hidden guns, several escape routes, and the ability to cut electricity from any room. You may know that our driver survived, but lost his leg, which ended his career. I carried him outside myself. As for the one who talked… Let’s just say he won’t talk again.”

Flake still looked rather nonplussed, but a bit less skeptical now. He then asked, “What specifically do you do? Apart from telling us what to do, what skills do you have?”

“You mean apart from planning, organising, researching, keeping overview, and keeping people as safe as they can be in this business?” Till said, slightly amused at Flake’s scepticism. “I may not be as specialised as the rest of you, but I can do a little of everything. I can hold my own with a gun, I’m pretty good at close combat, I know my way around explosives, I have my own connections - and I can even do a little field medicine, in case you should happen to be incapacitated.”

A short snort was the only indication Till was given that Flake had any emotions about it whatsoever.  
“You won’t have to worry about that. I’m quite good at looking out for myself. Just remember that a Jack of all trades is a master of none.”

After one more long, critical once-over, Flake sighed, then gave another quick nod. “I suppose you are capable enough. And even if you aren’t, this team at least seems as though it can pick up where you lack. Keep an eye on Richard though, if you have issues with your crews falling for ‘honey traps.’ He seems… well, you get what I mean.”

“He is a handsome man, as I’m sure you have noticed. Perhaps Paul should be worried,” Till smirked.

Flake seemed almost offended at the suggestion. “I mean Richard seems vapid,” Flake bit back sharply. “Keep his nose clean. It needs to not be sniffing at the first pretty face that comes along. And Paul trusts the hand that keeps him fed and satisfied. He doesn’t need to worry.” 

Till held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay,” he said. “As for Richard, I wouldn’t let his looks deceive you. I was told he once spent six days in jail without saying a word. I assume you know what that implies.”

“Perhaps his mouth was too busy to talk,” Flake muttered, shaking his head. “But if that’s true, then regardless of what his mouth was doing, he may be qualified enough for our purposes. Jail is not a very accommodating place.”

Till let out a small laugh. “If Richard was able to suck his way out of talking, I wouldn’t necessarily hold that against him.”

Flake had to nod in agreement. “Oliver seems plenty capable,” he mused. “Being recruited at that age is outstandingly impressive.”

“At least his skills should be excellent. If they are equally good in the field as in competition, he will be very valuable,” Till agreed.

“And I can personally vouch for Paul’s skills behind the wheel and dealing with anything explosive. I’d not still be partners with him if he weren’t worthwhile.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” Till said honestly. It was very clear Flake didn’t waste his time on people he deemed unnecessary or worthless. “He does seem to talk a lot, though.”

With a sigh, Flake rubbed his eyes. “Yes, he does; almost constantly. That said, I prefer his chattiness to his anger. I’m sure you’ll get a nice look at it eventually.”

“I can deal with anger as long as it’s not compromising the group.” Till was used to handling hotheads. It often came with the territory.

“No. He is quite professional on the job. The only worry is for personal property damage.” Flake shrugged. “It’s a personality thing.”

Till grinned. “You know, the smallest dogs are often the meanest.”

“And the loudest,” Flake sighed, rubbing his temples as stomping and yelling was heard from upstairs, no doubt from Paul. “I’ll go check on him. Thank you for answering my questions, Till. I look forward to working together.”

With that brusque and seemingly reluctant admittance, Flake left Till in the kitchen to attend to his partner.

\-- 

The phone call came in the afternoon on the fourth day. Gathering the group in the living room, Till went through the assignment from their boss, Herr Rammstein. Not even Till knew his identity, but that didn’t concern him. Pseudonyms were common in their business.

“We have been tasked with handling an informant, Christoph Schneider. Apparently, he has valuable information about a bank. The boss wants us to extract the information and dispose of the informant afterwards.”

“Sounds easy,” Paul said. “Go in, rough the info out of him, kill him. Should take what, like a half hour?”

Till resisted rolling his eyes. “I’m afraid it is not going to be that easy. We are to meet him at an abandoned house ten kilometres south of Treptow, and we can assume that the boss has eyes and ears in the area. How we handle this will most certainly be evaluated and influence what kind of jobs we get in the future. So I would recommend taking this seriously.”

“He is being serious,” Flake murmured in Paul’s defense, though he seemed to be paying more attention to a spreadsheet he’d been given by Till containing names and various details about their job.

“I would not automatically assume roughing someone up will make them talk,” Richard calmly remarked.

Paul grinned. “It does when I do it.”

“You think making people talk is easy?” Richard shook his head in disbelief. “If you’re not going to take this seriously, at least don’t screw this up for the rest of us.”

Paul’s grin suddenly vanished, and was replaced by a stony scowl. Flake looked up from his papers in concern at the sudden tense silence. He placed a hand on Paul’s knee, but Paul pushed it off. Oliver suddenly looked supremely uncomfortable at the tension in the room.

“I never said I wasn’t serious,” Paul said, through slightly gritted teeth. “I just said I can get it done quick. You don’t need to take long if you’re good at it.”

Richard crossed his arms. “Okay, whatever you say, Paul.”

Till saw Flake’s eyebrows raise a millisecond before Paul shot out of his seat with a snarl. Paul raised his boot-clad foot and violently kicked the glass coffee table over, shattering it against the floor toward Richard.

“You think I don’t take this _fucking_ seriously?” Paul roared. “I’ll show you just how goddamn serious I can be.”

Flake sighed, then folded his papers and stood up as Paul stomped across the broken glass over to Richard. The thinner man seemed completely unperturbed, somehow, as though this raging violence was a regular occurrence.

“You think breaking a coffee table will make people talk?” Richard looked Paul directly in the eye, totally calm and collected in spite of the man in front of him almost steaming from anger.

“I’m not trying to make you talk,” Paul seethed, hissing through his teeth at Richard. “When I go to work, you’ll know. I do not fuck around.”

Richard did not reply. Instead, he pulled off his sweater. Both his arms were full of what looked like cigarette- and other burn marks. His chest had long, light stripes from what had seemingly been cuts. And as he turned around, his back had a criss-cross pattern of whipping scars.

The fire in Paul’s eyes dwindled, though it didn’t extinguish completely. “Everyone has scars,” he said bitterly. “Why are yours any more special than ours?”

“I am not saying they are,” Richard shrugged. “I don’t know where yours are from. Mine are from six days in jail where they tried to make me give up my team.”

Paul stared at Richard with a frown, then asked gruffly, “Did you?”

“You really think I would be alive if I did?”

Another long moment of silence, then Paul begrudgingly said, “No. I guess not.”

Flake stepped up then and held Paul’s elbow, whispering into his ear for a moment.

Paul grunted in response, then said, “Fine. As long as everyone knows I don’t fuck around. I treat this as seriously as everyone else, maybe more so.”

With a last nod, Paul turned and tried to walk away but Flake held him firmly by the arm. “We need to let Till finish,” he reminded the shorter man.

Though he looked grouchy, Paul acquiesced and stood with his arms folded and waited for Till to continue, seeming not to notice they were all three now standing in a mess of shattered glass. Richard put his sweater back on, and sat down without another word. Oliver just stared wide-eyed and silent at the previous chaos.

“So,” Till said, as if nothing had happened. “The meeting takes place tomorrow at noon, so there is not that much time to prepare. Paul and Oliver, I would like you to head out there and map out the place. Flake, I would like you to look into drugs we could use to make the man talk should we need that. Richard, you and I will go through possible ways to extract the information without having to resort to violence. Any questions?”

Flake raised a finger. “There’s almost no background on this 'Schneider'. Do we have any other information on him? That’ll help me look for the right combination of drugs, at least, and probably make it easier for the rest of you to know what we’re dealing with.”

“Unfortunately not,” Till replied. “All I know is that the boss used a girl to get in touch with him in the first place. From what I gathered, he used to work for the bank, and he thinks that by giving us information, he can join our group for a heist against it.”

Flake made a disgruntled sound but didn’t say anything further.

“Just a few minutes with me and we won’t need any background,” Paul muttered before Flake elbowed him hard in the ribs.

“Stop it,” Flake commanded sharply, and Paul immediately snapped his mouth closed. Till was impressed at the harsh tone Flake could carry when he needed to.

“Oh and one more thing,” Till added. “The boss specifically wanted us to burn the guy.”

Everyone’s eyes widened at that revelation.

Oliver finally spoke up hesitantly from his place on the couch. “...why?”

Till shrugged. “Perhaps he just likes fire. Herr Rammstein said to burn the guy and then get out of there immediately after we light him up. He will then send a team to clean out the place.”

“Sounds a little strange,” Paul mused, and for once Flake completely agreed with him.

“Why does he not want us to clean it up? It’s not like we’re inexperienced in that area, or at least Paul and I aren’t. Did he say why?”

“He didn’t say specifically. My own theory is that he wants to see if we can follow instructions. I assume this is also the reason for the short notice and us not getting more information about this Schneider guy.”

“Or maybe he wants us to improvise when we’re given weird directions,” Paul suggested.

Both Richard and Flake shook their heads.

“I don’t think so,” Flake said. “It wouldn’t make sense to give clear instructions and expect us to go off the rails for no good reason. I agree with Till. It’s not unusual to test new groups, and this is a fairly simple assignment for it.”

“All right, then. Let’s get to work. Richard - let’s go in the kitchen,” Till said, getting up from his chair. “And Paul - you’re getting us a new coffee table.”

\-- 

“This place really is in the middle of nowhere,” Richard mused.

The dilapidated house was situated in a field that didn’t seem like it had been tended to for years. It had probably been used as a barn, and the inside was completely empty. A few sturdy pillars held the roof up, but there were no windows, and no electricity, so they had brought their own lamps as well as some chairs.

“There’s absolutely nothing around for dozens of kilometres,” Flake assured. “I made very sure of it. No one here but us either. I can’t speak to surveillance, but if there is, it’s impossible to find.”

“Let’s still assume that there is,” Till replied, looking around. He knew not to underestimate his boss. Over the years, he had seen plenty of examples of people doing just that, people who ended up paying dearly for that mistake.

“Of course,” Flake agreed. 

“So, we just wait for him to show up?” Paul asked, his foot bouncing impatiently. His suit hung on him too loosely, and he hated waiting while feeling so uncomfortable.

Till nodded. “Yes, we do exactly as planned. When he arrives, we wait for confirmation that he is who he says he is, then we greet him and let him think that he is on the team. We drink - make sure you drink from the marked bottles - and then we go to work. According to the information we got, he should be here shortly, so you should all put on your masks.”

Paul immediately slid his on, then turned and roared in laughter as Flake donned his.

“You look amazing,” Paul wheezed, as Flake crossed his arms in disgust.

“I don’t agree with the mask thing,” Flake complained. “I get why. But I don’t like it.”

“I don’t like masking up either, but at least it should only be for a short while,” Till said comfortingly. “It is extremely unlikely that anyone else would randomly show up here, but this is all about being as professional as possible for the assignment. And at least the masks don't cover our mouths.”

“Be nice if it did,” Flake muttered, shooting a look through his mask over at Paul, who was whistling as he bent down near their box of supplies and double checked them.

“I don’t mind the mask,” Oliver said. “I kind of like them. They are funny.”

“If you think looking perpetually surprised is funny,” Richard said dryly, adjusting his a little.

“I do, actually,” Oliver smiled.

Paul snapped his fingers at everyone suddenly from across the room. His lighthearted attitude vanished in an instant. “Heads up. I think our guy’s here.”

The atmosphere in the room immediately changed. Lining up in the back of the room, dimly illuminated by a small lamp, the five men waited in complete silence. Not long after, they could hear the door open and close, then footsteps before a man stepped out of the shadows.

Walking towards them, the man paused halfway across the room. He wore long dark pants, heavy boots, a trim suit with a heavy looking jacket, gloves, and a small scarf. The man raised his hands with palms up as he said, “So, am I supposed to introduce myself, or…?”

Till, who was standing in the middle of the group, spoke up. “That would be a good start.”

“I’m Christoph Schneider, sent by Herr Rammstein to meet you, and - uh - _und ich hab nichts gesagt._ ”

Upon hearing the code phrase, Till immediately removed his mask. “Welcome,” he said, smiling widely at the newcomer. “Till Lindemann.”

The others followed Till’s lead, removing their masks as well, greeting Schneider. Flake seemed particularly happy to toss his far away, hoping he would never have to use it again.

Paul snatched up two bottles, saving the marked one for himself and shoving the other at Schneider with a grin.

“First drinks; then business,” he proclaimed as Schneider took the bottle. “Drink up, new partner!”

Flake, Oliver, Richard, and Till all grabbed bottles as well, taking care to pick the right ones as theirs had been watered down, unlike the one they gave the new member.

“A toast, to good partnerships and to ill-secured banks!” Till lifted his bottle and clanked it loudly against Schneider’s before taking a big swig.

The others did likewise, all clanging their bottles together and laughing as they drank. It didn’t take long before the barn was full of happy voices as they made sure Schneider felt at home in the group.

 _Poor fucker_ , Till thought for a brief moment. _At least he gets to be hammered one last time before going down._

Everyone seemed to be in good spirits, even though Till thought Oliver looked a bit hesitant about the whole operation. He apparently didn’t mind shooting people from far away, but up close dealings was a whole different ball game. Till knew it could take some getting used to.

As soon as Richard found Schneider to be intoxicated enough, he went to work. “So about this bank,” he said, initiating the first phase of their interrogation plan. “I heard you had some really good information about it.”

Slurring his words slightly, he made sure he appeared appropriately drunk for the amount of alcohol he supposedly had ingested.

“Yeah!” Schneider said, his face lighting up from finally being asked about what he came there for. “I worked there for seven years, and I know the place like the back of my hand, including all their security routines. They are really shitty. The place is almost begging to be robbed.”

After gentle coercion from Richard, the group quickly assessed that Schneider did indeed know the place really well. He had detailed information about layout, alarms, the vault, and more interestingly, he knew that even though security routines demanded that the bank changed their codes weekly, it was not done as the aging bank manager was too lazy to memorise new ones.

“The man even uses his wife’s date of birth as his computer password,” Schneider howled, and the others laughed with him.

“So what are the codes then? His children’s birthdays?” Richard asked.

Schneider wagged a finger at him. “No, no, no, I’m not telling you that,” he grinned. “Those codes are going to ensure that you guys don’t just go and do the heist without me. I want in on this, I deserve it after all those years at that stupid place!”

Paul shoved his way up next to Schneider then, all smiles. “Come on, you’re part of the gang now,” he said, clapping the man on the back. “We don’t ditch our gang.”

Schneider smiled back at Paul, but refused to budge. “I’m new to this gangster thing, but in all movies I have seen, it is a bad thing to give up all information at once. For all I know, you guys might just kill me once I tell!”

“Do we look like cold-blooded killers to you?” Richard purred.

Schneider’s eyes looked a bit unfocused as he slowly assessed the five men around him. “Maybe not you, but _that guy_ …” he said, pointing at Oliver, “...he looks like he would put a bullet between my eyes without even blinking.”

Till glanced nervously at Oliver, unsure of how the young man would react. Though when Oliver slowly leaned over to look Schneider straight in the face, then blinked slowly before they both burst out in laughter, Till also started laughing, mostly from relief. The rest of the gang laughed as well, feeling confident they were easing Schneider right where he needed to be.

“Okay, okay, you all seem like really nice gangsters,” Schneider admitted. “I will tell you the codes before we enter the bank. So when is this heist happening?”

As Till made up some bullshit details about their currently non-existent ‘plan’, Flake surreptitiously eased his way up behind Schneider, a syringe held carefully and covertly in his hand. Once he was in place, he gave a short nod to Till.

Both Till and Paul immediately dropped their bottles and grabbed Schneider, one on each side of the man and held him still. Schneider tried to struggle, yelling out in slurred confusion. Flake worked quickly, taking the arm skillfully held out and stabilised by Paul. He jabbed the needle expertly into a vein on his first go, and plunged the liquid into Schneider’s bloodstream.

Till and Paul released him then, and Schneider staggered around for a few moments, disoriented. “What… why?” he managed, only barely able to form coherent words before the drugs combined with the alcohol took over. He collapsed onto the floor, the bottle in his hand smashing as it hit the concrete.

“There. We’ve got about 15 minutes before he comes back around,” Flake said, capping and pocketing the needle. “I had to go light on the sedative since I don’t know his medical history. I suggest we move this along quickly.”

Oliver immediately lifted Schneider up from the floor and placed him in a chair. Pulling out strips from his pocket, he had the man secured to the chair in no time, to Till’s surprise. He had not expected the young, lanky man to be that strong, or that resourceful.

“Nice work,” Paul praised, admiring Oliver’s efficiency. “He won’t be pulling free of that, for sure.”

“Technically, he could,” Oliver replied matter-of-factly. “But not without us seeing it.”

“And it would take a good while,” Flake added, also impressed by Oliver’s sudden involvement. “Thank you for the help, Till, and good job holding his arm steady, Paul.”

The shorter man beamed at Flake’s praise as if he’d been given some esteemed award. Till was fascinated by the dynamics between the two of them. It was interesting to see how Flake handled Paul and managed to keep him in check, and he could see very well why the two of them had needed to join the group as a pair.

“All right. Who gets to start with the ‘roughing’?” Paul asked.

“I’ll start.” Till said calmly, removing his jacket.

Paul looked a bit disappointed, but nodded, deferring to Till’s leadership.

“Don’t worry. You will get your turn.” Till was again fascinated as he saw Paul’s face instantly lighten up. The man was easy to please.

“All right, so” Flake began, ticking items off on his fingers, “we need the codes to the safe, the password to the security system and the code for the back alarms. Once we have those three things, we can deal with him and get out of here. The sooner the better, too.”

Everyone nodded in acknowledgement, and prepared themselves as they waited for the man to regain consciousness.

\-- 

As soon as Schneider started moving in his chair, he was greeted by a hard hit to the face.

“Fuck!” he grunted, trying to move his arms to protect himself, only to realise that he was unable to. Distressed, he pulled at the strips, but they just dug into his skin, and he groaned from the discomfort.

“Fuck!” he grunted again, an expression of pain and hurt on his face. “What is this? Why are you doing this to me?”

Till leaned down so his face was only centimetres away from Schneider’s.

“Codes. Now. Please.”

Schneider pulled his head back as far he could. His legs were shaking. “I told you I was going to give them to you before the heist!” he whimpered.

Paul leaned in as well, sticking his lower lip out in a pout. “Aw, come on; we’re a gang now. We’re supposed to share everything with each other. How else are we supposed to know you actually have the right information?”

“Because I said I did? You don’t trust me?” Schneider looked desperately at Richard, who just shrugged.

“Do you trust us?” Richard asked.

“Yes! No! I did until you did this to me!” Schneider pulled at the restraints again.

“Clearly you didn’t, or you’d have given us what we asked for in the first place,” Flake said, taking another needle from his pocket where Schneider could see and admiring it in the light. “We’d not have had to “help” you tell us otherwise.”

“I - you - shit…” The panic was suddenly very audible in Schneider’s voice. “You are going to kill me, aren’t you?”

“That depends on you,” Richard said, putting a hand on Schneider’s shoulder. He could feel the man’s muscles tensing up from the touch.

“And whether or not you decide to start telling us what we want to hear,” Paul added, joining Richard in laying a hand on Schneider’s other shoulder..

“Don’t think we won’t check the codes either,” Flake said, flicking the cap off the syringe. “We give them right to Herr Rammstein who validates them for us. If you give us false ones, we have absolutely zero reason to keep you alive. We can always grab a security guard and do the same thing to them, except they will be much easier to persuade.”

“We’re giving you a chance to partner up,” Paul clarified. “We don’t want to kill a security guard for codes.”

“Too much of a hassle to kidnap,” Flake agreed.

Schneider did not seem convinced at all. “You are going to kill me,” he muttered, demonstratively pressing his lips together.

Paul sighed and glanced over at Till, as if silently asking for permission. But before Till could respond, Oliver stretched out a hand, pressing his thumb against a point just behind Schneider’s jaw, causing the man to scream out in agony until Oliver finally removed his hand.

Startled, Paul stepped back a bit from the yelling man and stared, puzzled. “What the fuck did you do?” He couldn’t keep from blurting out the question.

“Pressure point,” Oliver shrugged. “Want me to show you?”

Paul’s eyes widened and he backed up even further. “I’m good, thanks.”

Flake snorted at Paul’s sudden fright, but refocused quickly on the task at hand.

“So,” Till said, directed at Schneider. “Are you ready to talk, or do we need to help you a little more?”

Schneider’s head slumped down. “Didn’t your boss tell you that I am being monitored? If I tell you now, I’m a dead man,” he pleaded.

“Sorry, friend,” Paul said, stepping back up. “Sob stories don’t work on us. We run just as much of a risk of being gunned down if we don’t do _our_ jobs. So…”

Paul brandished a small set of oddly shaped, rusty pliers. “You going to tell us the codes?”

While Schneider opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish, staring at the pliers, Till took the opportunity to unceremoniously plant a fist straight to his nose.

“FUCK!” Schneider yelled again, blood streaming from his clearly broken nose.

“Pressure point,” Till grinned.

“Actually, it is,” Oliver nodded, to Till’s further amusement. “And here is another one.”

Leaning in, Oliver pushed his thumbs against Schneider’s temples on both sides, and the man screamed again.

“Yes yes, that’s all well and good to have ‘pressure points’ Paul said, elbowing his way up to Schneider, pushing Oliver aside. The man whimpered and looked up at Paul, blood spattered across his mouth and clothes. “But who needs pressure points when you have tools as trusty as these?”

With that rhetorical question, Paul flashed his pliers again in front of Schneider’s face, who winced and flinched away from them. “See these? Custom. The top of them is just a normal half of a pair of pliers, but the bottom, just look at it.”

Paul held them up very close to Schneider, who trembled and tried to pull his head away. “The bottom of them are as thin as a knife blade, and designed to perfectly shove up under a fingernail, if one were to take your gloves off, of course. Then--”

Paul snapped the pliers together with a click, and mimed wrenching his arm backward as if yanking at an invisible nail.

Schneider squirmed and shivered at the thought, his breath coming in fast pants of fear.

“So as you can see,” Richard started, “this could either be over quickly, or it could be _very_ unpleasant for you. Your choice.”

“Not as unpleasant as it’s going to be for you guys if you don’t let me go,” Schneider suddenly growled.

Paul laughed. “Oh really? Do tell what you’re going to do to us while tied to a chair in the middle of nowhere.”

“Not me, _stupid_. What happens to me is irrelevant. But I don’t think your boss is going to be very happy if you leave here without the codes.” Schneider’s voice was deep and threatening.

A flash of fury burst into Paul’s eyes at being called stupid. He snarled and drew back his hand, fully intending to slice across Schneider’s face with his pliers. Flake caught his hand, however, and pulled him back away from the tied-up man. Though he was equally infuriated at Schneider for the insult, Till had given him a look that clearly said to wait. They didn’t want Paul to accidentally kill the man.

“I’m getting tired of this,” Till sighed. Raising his fist, he beat Schneider again, hitting him just above the right eye. There was a sickening sound of bone breaking, then an ear-splitting scream.

“Shoulda let me tear him up,” Paul grumbled, but Flake hushed him, sensing Schneider wouldn’t be holding out much longer. Flake released his hold on Paul to fish out a small notebook from his pants pocket and flipped it open.

Flake was right. As Schneider lifted his head, it was as if there was no fight left in him.

“I’ll give you the codes,” he said, voice full of contempt. “I hope you rot in hell.”

As Flake jotted down the codes, Till went to fetch the black hood and the accelerant provided by their boss to carry out the last part of their assignment.

“I’ll send these up to Herr Rammstein to verify, and once they’re approved, you’ll be all set,” Flake said with a terribly fake smile. He wasn’t particularly good at false cheer.

“Okay guys, pack up. We’re leaving in a few,” Till said as he returned. While Paul, Oliver, and Richard gathered their few items in a bag, Till turned to the man in the chair.

“Herr Rammstein’s orders,” he shrugged, as he put the black hood over Schneider’s head before uncapping the bottle of accelerant. The hood did nothing to muffle the screams from Schneider as he realised what was happening. Even though Till was used to hearing such things, there was always something eerie about the pleas from someone about to die. He wondered if he would do the same if he ever found himself in such a situation.

“We’re packed and ready,” Richard said, tapping Till lightly on the shoulder. Shaking off his thoughts, Till retrieved a pack of matches from his pocket.

Paul watched in utter fascination as Till prepared to immolate the man, while Flake stifled a yawn. Clearly the two had very different views on murder. Richard waited silently for Till to do what he needed to, neither overly anxious or excited. Though Oliver didn’t seem particularly bothered, he also didn’t seem interested.

“It would have been a lot easier to shoot him,” he mumbled under his breath.

Till lit the match and flicked it. After watching for a few seconds, the five men turned around and left, their job finally complete.

\-- 

It was late in the evening when the five men met up again. Having split up to make sure no one was on their tails as Schneider had claimed to be monitored, they had gone to five different motels to clean up and rest a bit before Paul picked them up, one by one.

“Good job today,” Till said as Richard joined them in the car, as the last one. “Let’s get back to base and evaluate.”

“I still think I should have gotten to pull some fingernails,” Paul complained.

“Next time, dear,” Flake soothed, patting Paul’s shoulder from his spot behind the driver’s seat. Paul hummed happily at that, and focused his attention back on the road.

Till leaned back in his seat, satisfied that everything had seemed to go according to plan. He was also positively surprised by the skillset that his team possessed. Getting a new group to function together could be tricky, but this one seemed to have worked out even better than he could have dreamed of.

The rest of the trip took place in silence. Till was happy to step out of the car in front of their base, but as he approached the door, he froze.

“What’s wrong?” Richard asked, sensing the tension from Till.

“Someone has been here. I put out markers before we left, and they have been disturbed,” Till whispered, pulling out his gun.

Oliver immediately did the same, and they approached the door from one side each, signalling to each other as they prepared to enter.

Paul immediately shoved Flake behind him and pressed them against the wall, waiting for Till’s next move. Richard pulled out a tiny handgun from inside his waistband, cleverly hidden until now, and took up post behind Oliver. Even without training together or practicing, they all fell into an impressively solid formation.

On Till’s signal, Oliver quickly unlocked the door and opened it. Till covertly stepped into the entryway. Signalling that it was clear, he moved up to the living room door while Oliver entered, taking position to be ready to fire should someone be in there. Placing his hand quietly on the handle, Till gestured to Oliver, and opened the door.

“Ich glaub mich knutscht ein Elch!” Paul blurted out while everyone else stood with their mouths open, frozen in shock.

There, sitting alive and not burned to death-- albeit looking a bit worse for wear-- was Christoph Schneider. His hands were raised lazily in the air, showing he had no weapons on him.

“Surprise,” he said, grinning and then wincing in pain from the movement. “You really fucked my face up, you know.”

Till was the first one to collect himself enough to regain the ability to speak. “Schneider,” he said, trying to sound more calm than he actually was. “I think you might owe us an explanation.”

“Of course. But please put away the guns. As you can see, I am unarmed.” Schneider gestured for them to join him in the living room.

“I think I’ll stay here, thanks,” Paul said from the doorway, entirely too creeped out to be comfortable sitting down in the presence of a man they just killed.

For once, Flake had nothing to say, and deferred to Paul by continuing to stand behind him a bit fearfully. Paul reached back and slid a hand around Flake’s waist, whether to comfort or be comforted, it was hard to tell.

Till was slightly sceptical, but decided that the unarmed man did not pose a big threat to the five of them. He slowly entered, sat down in a chair, and put the gun on the armrest. Oliver followed his lead, placing himself in a chair on the other side of Schneider, while Richard sat down on the sofa, though as far away from Schneider as possible.

“How the fuck aren’t you dead?” Paul demanded.

Schneider laughed. “Straight to the point, aren’t we? Well. As you might have suspected already, today’s assignment was a test to see how this new group functions as a team.”

“A _test_?” Flake spat, finally emerging from behind Paul angrily. “You chose torture and murder by immolation as a _test_?”

Schneider shrugged. “Sometimes you need to see how far people are willing to go to in order to know which assignments they can be trusted with.”

“Our track record doesn’t speak for itself?” Paul sounded genuinely hurt.

“Your track record as a team was non-existent before today,” Schneider pointed out.

Paul said nothing, as it was true. He still felt a bit irked, though.

“How was our performance then?” Oliver said from his chair.

“Quite frankly, it was spectacular,” Schneider offered.

Paul’s previous irritation disappeared at that, and he grinned despite Flake’s elbow grinding into his side to get him to shut up. “Were we graded individually?” he asked hopefully.

Schneider laughed, immediately grimacing from another surge of pain from his injured face.

“You should get your face looked at,” Flake quipped, still bitter about the whole ordeal. “You’ve got too many broken bones to just let it sit for too long.”

“Already taken care of. Going into surgery after this debriefing,” Schneider sighed. “Broken nose, multiple orbital fractures. You have one hell of a punch, Till. Didn’t see that one coming.”

“You would have had broken fingernails too if Flake hadn’t held me back,” Paul offered, hoping that fact might raise his hypothetical score, and not wanting to be outdone by Till.

“I’ll admit that you had me worried with those rusty pliers,” Schneider admitted. “Haven’t seen anything like that before.”

Paul nodded enthusiastically. “I wasn’t lying. I had them made a few years ago when I realized I had the most fun yanking nails off, but regular pliers are too hard to get under the nails.”

“Okay, hold on,” Richard interjected. “That’s all well and good, but how did you escape being _set on fire_? We didn’t cut any corners there. We left you going up in smoke.”

“You _thought_ you left me going up in smoke. The fire was well planned and needed as I could not risk simply being shot. I was wearing fireproof clothing that could hold on for a few minutes if needed, the hood was made out of similar fabric, and the accelerant was one that provided a cold flame, making the risk of burns a lot smaller. Furthermore, I had a team ready to step in at any point needed, hiding in small compartments around the building that I had prepared to have put in after you mapped out the place.”

Flake mumbled some particularly bitter curses at himself for failing to catch those hidden compartments and other now-obvious details, even after the first search of the building. He should have gone back and double-checked it all. He would not make the same mistakes again.

Till shook his head in disbelief. “So all this - to test us. And from what I can see, you were severely injured in the process.”

“That was not the plan,” Schneider admitted. “Although I would have to say it was worth it. You proved far more resourceful than expected. The strategy was solid, the restraints caught me off guard, and as you could see, I did not expect Till’s punches to be so devastating. Though the pressure points almost made me call the test off.”

Paul grumbled again about his pliers, but was willing to concede that Oliver’s surprising hand-to-hand skills had been wildly impressive as well.

“So now what?” Richard asked. “Do we pass your test?”

“I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t,” Schneider said. “Actually, I wouldn’t even be here if you simply passed. I am only here because of how exceptionally good your performance was. No other group has made a similar first impression, and I have run a lot of tests over the years. I wanted to personally congratulate you, and let you know that you are now a special task team, working directly with me.”

“Interesting,” Richard said. “And will you be overseeing us instead of Herr Rammstein?”

Schneider laughed, wincing yet again. “I will most definitely be overseeing you,” he replied, slowly lifting himself up from the couch. “But right now, Herr Rammstein has a surgery to attend. Good night, gentlemen. You shall hear from me soon.”

Flake clapped his hand over Paul’s mouth before another curse-filled exclamation escaped as he knew it would.

“Good night, Herr Rammstein,” Flake said instead. “And good luck with your surgery.”

  



	2. Herzeleid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Wahnsinn:** Summary?  
>  **NikoNotHere:** Hmm. Something about Oliver and the gun and Paul being off his game or something  
>  **Wahnsinn:** Ok

It was official: Paul was definitely sulking, and for once, Flake couldn’t figure out why. He was normally excellent at picking up on Paul’s various mood swings as well as the motivations behind them, but Paul seemingly had no reason for this particular slump. 

Their first test job had gone spectacularly well, with a glowing review after the fact; and the boss had complimented Paul personally on his exceptional techniques during the interrogation. Their new base was even spacious enough to give Paul and Flake their own room together, which had thrilled Flake to no end.

They were getting along splendidly with their new gang; in their base, security measures and cameras were up and running; and the team seemed competent. For the first time in a long while, Flake felt secure enough to go on long walks at night, which he had missed while in hiding with Paul. Their only thoughts then had been staying alive and out of sight until the threats had blown over. It had been a constant state of unease and fear for them both, but now they were settled and safe-- or as safe as they could be in their line of work.

With all of the good things that were finally coming their way, there really wasn’t anything Flake could think of that would have upset Paul’s generally cheery mood. Yet, there he sat at the table, scowling as he munched loudly on some knäckebrot. Flake had rolled his eyes, having prepared a minced meat breakfast for everyone. But he knew the crisp bread was one of Paul’s top favorite comfort foods, so he let him be.

The other gang members at the table each ate their food quietly, apparently also having picked up on Paul’s sour attitude and deciding not to comment on it. Either that, or none of them were morning people. Both possibilities were likely, Flake thought as he glanced at everyone’s sleepy faces. Maybe he needed to have breakfast a bit later in the mornings.

“I just want to remind you all that even though our first assignment went well, we need to keep our skills honed at all times, especially in between jobs,” Till said after finishing his second helping. “I will be going to the gym today. Richard said he would join me, so we will be taking one of the cars. I suggest the rest of you also try and get in some training now that we have the opportunity.”

“I’ll take the other car. Herr Schneider arranged for me to train at one of his shooting ranges today,” Oliver said eagerly. “He said it had the best possible facilities, so I can’t wait to see it!”

After their first job, Herr Rammstein had asked them to use his real name - Schneider - unless they were in business dealings or talking to other associates about him. It was refreshing to use a real name for their boss.

“And what about me?” Paul protested. Flake sighed pointedly, but Paul ignored him. “I was going to take the car and practice on the track for a while. I don’t want to get rusty either.”

Oliver shrugged. “Herr Schneider was pretty insistent on the time, and I wouldn’t feel comfortable telling him no. But, would you like to come with me?”

“That sounds like an excellent idea, Paul,” Flake said hurriedly. “You need to get out of the house. You’ve been sitting here too much lately.”

“If everyone wasn’t always using the cars, I wouldn’t be sitting around,” Paul grumbled. “Fine, I’ll go, since I don’t seem to be wanted around in the house anymore.”

Paul stood up abruptly and stomped off, leaving the rest to awkwardly finish their food.

“Sorry about that,” Flake said, a bit embarrassed as he took up Paul’s empty plate. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him today. Thanks for including him, Oliver. I think he needs the time away.”

“Sure. Herr Schneider said everyone is welcome to go, so long as they clear the time they want to shoot with him first.”

“I’ll be going for a walk, as usual,” Flake stated after tidying the last of his dishes. “Being out of hiding is so nice that I can’t stay inside for very long anymore. I have charted the immediate area around here quite well, and I will be covering a bigger radius today. As usual, I will put my notes on the computer so that you all can review them - that is if you can find time in your busy schedules.”

Flake huffed a little, not even bothering to hide that he was less than pleased that no one had seemed to bother checking out his meticulous notes yet. 

Till chuckled. “They are very detailed notes. Good job, Flake,” he remarked.

“Yes, well, so long as they’re helpful,” Flake grumbled.

\-- 

If Paul didn’t know better, he would have thought that Oliver was in love. When they arrived at the shooting range, a package had been waiting for the marksman. As Oliver opened it, Paul was afraid that the man’s jaw would hit the ground from the sight of the brand new Blaser R93 Tactical sniper rifle.

“Beautiful,” Oliver whispered, gently running his fingers across the smooth, black metal. “Detachable magazine, muzzle brake, fully adjustable stock, aluminum receiver block, 10-round capacity magazines, adjustable cheek piece…” 

“It’s a nice - gun,” Paul offered.

Oliver sent Paul a very judging look before closing the case. Gathering his things, he quickly walked towards the setup. “I’ll show you what this _gun_ can do,” he muttered.

Not long after, it was Paul’s jaw that almost hit the ground. Firing rapid shots from what seemed like a ridiculous distance from where they had the rifle positioned - Paul could hardly see the target at all - bull’s eye after bull’s eye showed up on the monitor in the little shooting bunker. 

Schneider had outfitted this gun range with incredibly high tech equipment that made tracking Oliver’s shots easy. A monitor on the wall showed the exact points of contact along with the distance shot. There were also several different sections for shooting, where Oliver could either be lying down, sitting, or standing with his rifle, and he could choose between several different target distances. Currently, he was lying down, wanting to test the maximum range of his new weapon.

“…whoah.” 

Paul stood with his eyes wide and his hands over his ears to protect them from the loud crack of the rifle. Schneider had left a beautiful pair of shooting headphones for Oliver, but only the one. It didn’t occur to him to grab a set of earplugs just off to the side of the setup either.

“Did you say something?” Oliver pushed one side of the headphones off his ear and flashed a wide grin at Paul.

“I - not really.” Paul was a bit lost for words.

“Nice _gun_ , right?” Oliver smirked.

Paul nodded vigorously. “I’m glad I’m on your side,” he mumbled, as Oliver flipped the headphone back on, loaded another magazine, and fired another ten impressively precise shots.

It was a very satisfied Oliver who stood up afterwards, patting his newly obtained treasure fondly. “Want to try?” he asked, gesturing for Paul to lie down.

“I’m not big on guns,” Paul said, shaking his head. “Much prefer explosives.”

“Knowing how to handle one properly could save your life. Or mine.” Oliver raised his eyebrows slightly.

“I know _how_ to shoot,” Paul insisted. “I just don’t like it very much. I don’t like having to sit around and be still enough to aim. It’s frustrating and boring.”

“It’s not boring,” Oliver said, shaking his head, finding it hard to understand that someone would not love to sit in wait for the perfect shot. “So which weapons are you familiar with?” he asked, packing up his rifle.

“I’ve shot some pistols, a few shotguns, I guess a rifle once or twice.”

“What calibers?”

“What’s a caliber? The size of the gun?”

Oliver’s eyes widened in surprise at Paul’s lack of knowledge in this area. He assumed everyone knew at least what types of guns and calibers there were. It was a little bit exciting having the opportunity to teach someone the basics.

“Come here and I’ll help you pick a handgun to practice with.”

In addition to the sniper range, Schneider had outfitted three other shooting galleries for use with different weapons, ready for any of the gang who needed to practice. Oliver led Paul over to the smaller range, opening an expandable trunk that held a wide variety of pistols. 

“I recommend getting familiar with the 9 millimeters first,” Oliver said, pointing to a specific row of handguns. “They’re the most common and easy to use starting out. They pack plenty of punch for their size and are easy to conceal if you need to. Pick one of these to try out.”

Paul glanced at the guns for a moment before his gaze drifted. “What about these big ones? Can’t I try one of these?”

Oliver’s eyebrow raised again. “That’s a .45. You’ll hit yourself in the face with it if you’re not used to it,” he warned.

“I want that one,” Paul insisted, pulling the revolver from the case and hefting it up.

“Well, okay. We’ll just have to work on your grip first, then.” Oliver went to another case and pulled out some ammo boxes.

“I know how to hold a gun,” Paul insisted, raising the revolver and holding it close to his eye as he squinted down at the sight. “You hold it up, close your one eye and aim and pull the trigger and--”

Oliver had leaped up to try and stop Paul before firing the gun, but didn’t reach him in time. 

Paul squeezed the trigger and fired, causing the massive revolver to kick back as he did so. Because of how close he held it to his face, the gun flew back from the recoil and smashed into his right eye. Paul yelled in pain and dropped the gun, which thankfully didn’t discharge when it hit the floor. He hopped around, holding his eye and swearing with each hop.

“I told you we had to work on your grip,” Oliver said, picking up the revolver and dusting it off before placing it back in the case. Reaching into his bag, he fished out an instant cold pack from the first aid pocket, crushed it up, wrapped it in a small towel, and handed it to Paul.

“Fuck you and your grips. I told you I don’t like guns,” Paul spat as he continued bouncing around in pain, ignoring the ice pack.

“Come on, Paul. Your eye’s gonna bruise if you don’t ice it. Here.” 

Paul finally stopped dancing around and angrily snatched the ice pack.

Oliver whistled as he saw the already-darkening mark around Paul’s eye. “Well, I guess it’s bruising regardless. But the ice will make it hurt less and reduce swelling.”

Paul glared at him out from under the ice pack but didn’t say anything.

“Once it stops hurting, let’s try the 9 millimeter.”

“I’m done shooting,” Paul grunted.

“No, you really need to practice,” Oliver insisted. “I meant it when I said this was an important skill to learn, or at least practice with. Even if not for you, don’t you want to impress Flake with your gun-handling?”

At the mention of Flake, Paul’s gaze rose back up. “...maybe. He doesn’t really like guns either. I guess one of us should be able to use them, and I know he won’t offer to try.”

With a sigh, Paul removed the ice pack and nodded. “Okay. Show me how to hold the gun right.”

Taking position, Oliver explained a solid stance and how to hold the gun steady. For good measures, he also fired the 9mm a few times, making it look incredibly easy. After reloading, he handed the gun to Paul.

“Your turn. I will help you get in the correct position.”

Paul hesitatingly tried to copy Oliver’s stance, pointing the gun at the target. 

“Here, let me show you.”

Oliver reached over and wrapped one long arm around Paul’s shoulders, pressing them down to ease their tense position. “Try to relax. You’ll just give yourself a cramped neck if you tighten up like that.”

He then straightened Paul’s elbows, not quite locking them, but preventing them from moving once the pistol fired to keep the recoil from jostling him too much. Finally, he stepped back and said, “Don’t hold your breath when you aim. It makes you too shaky. Try taking a deep breath instead and firing halfway through the exhale. It should be nice and steady then.”

“Okay,” Paul said, inhaling deeply and trying to remember everything at once. As he exhaled and prepared to shoot, he still felt jitters along his arms that kept his aim from being steady. Annoyed, he tried again, taking in an even bigger breath before releasing and trying to will his muscles to steady. It didn’t work, and he realized he was shaking even harder than before. Dammit. He lowered the pistol and stared at it in frustration.

“Are you okay?” Oliver asked, seeing the increasing trembles along Paul’s arms. “If your head still hurts, we can take a break or do it later.”

“No, it’s fine,” Paul insisted, raising the pistol again and trying once more to settle his nerves. He inhaled, exhaled-- and couldn’t even see the target anymore because of how badly his arms shook.

Oliver quietly took the gun from Paul, unloaded it, and put it away before returning to the man who was still shaking uncontrollably. Guiding him down on a bench in the back of the shooting bunker, he put an arm comfortingly around Paul to help him calm down.

“I’m sorry,” Paul muttered. “I don’t get like that very often, but I can’t really stop it when I do. I still appreciate your teaching.”

“Want to talk about it?” Oliver asked, genuinely concerned. “Is there something I can do to help?”

“Unless you can magically fix emotional connections, I doubt it,” Paul said sarcastically. “I… I really care about Flake.”

Oliver said nothing as Paul began talking, he simply sat and listened.

“We spent the last three months holed up in practically a cave together, 24/7. We ate, slept, lived, breathed together for three straight months, just us. I liked it, in a way. It let us bond without any distractions or complications. Everything was really simple. Now it seems like every chance he gets, he runs away from me, like he can’t wait to put distance between us. After being so close for so long, it just makes me scared. I get shaky when I think about him being too far away. What if one day he goes so far that he doesn’t come back? I know that’s not really going to happen, but I can’t stop thinking it, and I can’t stop shaking.”

Still without saying anything, Oliver started gently rubbing Paul’s arm, silently encouraging him to keep talking.

“I know it’s a bit messed up,” Paul sighed. “I blame it on my parents. Do you have any siblings? I do. I was the middle child, the one that never got attention. Plus I was born early, so I’ve been too small since the day I was born. Trust me, that doesn’t help when there is nothing you want more than being seen.”

Paul laughed wryly. “I guess you don’t have that problem.”

“Not that one, no,” Oliver had to admit.

“And it wasn’t just my parents. It has been like this all my life. People just see my size, not _me_. I feel like I have to work twice as hard and be twice as loud for people to take me seriously. And even then, I end up being called 'cute' or patted on the head as if I’m a puppy that did a trick or something. I lost count of how many times I’ve been compared to a chihuahua.”

Oliver nodded understandingly, but had to admit to himself that the thought *had* crossed his mind.

Paul sighed. “Flake, though… Flake really sees me. He always has. He specifically singles me out, knows what I’m feeling, even anticipates things I want before I say them. He’s perfect like that. And the thought of that going away…” Paul shook his head. “I can’t handle that thought. So my body shakes, maybe to get rid of the thought, I don’t know. It’s just been worse lately, with the new base, the new gang, being around people constantly instead of alone all the time. Flake gets shy, though you wouldn’t know it by his snarky attitude, but that’s just his defense mechanism against feeling uncomfortable. He generally hides his emotions around other people, which unfortunately means affection to me, too. It’s just hard. It makes me worry, even though I know it shouldn’t.”

Paul turned his head to silently face Oliver, seemingly having used up all of his words in the emotional rant.

“Have you -- talked to him about this?” Oliver asked quietly.

The shorter man winced as he turned back to face the shooting range. “Kinda. I don’t like bringing it up because I don’t want him to worry.”

“This seems like something he might not realize unless you bring it up,” Oliver pointed out. “Maybe he was just happy to be out of a cave, and it didn’t occur to him that you still wanted to be so close.”

Paul hadn’t considered that. It did seem possible that Flake had given him space, assuming that-- like Flake himself-- Paul needed some time apart after so long together. Though the man was very astute, Flake wasn’t omniscient.

“You’re probably right,” Paul admitted. “I suppose I do need to talk to him.” After a moment, Paul looked over at Oliver again, his one eye fairly swollen and discolored from the hit of the revolver.

“Thanks, Olli.”

Oliver smiled and patted Paul firmly on the back. “Nothing to thank me for.”

Picking the ice pack and the towel back up, he handed it to Paul. “You should keep icing down your eye a little longer. I need to get some more rounds in, but I’ll make it as fast as I can, I’ll just put in some longer sessions later. This facility is unbelievable.”

Paul couldn’t help smiling a little. The awe and enthusiasm in Oliver’s face made it so clear that the man truly loved what he was doing, and the way he handled both himself and the weapons on the range displayed incredible skill. To his surprise, Paul found himself fascinated and entertained by watching the man practice. The speed and precision was downright ridiculous, but what impressed Paul the most was how Oliver remained calm and focused, even when working his way through an obstacle range with moving targets.

“Holy shit, that was almost like watching an action movie!” he gaped after Oliver had sprinted, stopped, turned, thrown himself on the ground, and even done some fancy rolls, all with a gun in his hand and seemingly without missing a single target.

“Third shot too far left, had to correct. Fourth, bad positioning due to the third. Second to last, misjudged distance for the roll, weak stance, shot too low,” Oliver frowned, looking very displeased with his own performance. “I need more training.”

“I’m sure you are the only one who saw those things.” Paul giggled a little at Oliver’s harsh self-criticism. “But if you’re going to be doing more of that shit, I’d love to come with you and watch if that’s okay with you. It was really cool.”

Oliver’s face lit up a bit. “Of course you can come. Anytime.”

“Plus after seeing you shoot, I actually want to be better at it as well,” Paul added, which made Oliver’s frown transform into a smile.

“We can come back tomorrow if you want, and practice some more, after you’ve had time to talk with Flake, maybe,” he said, starting to disassemble the weapons he had used.

Paul nodded in agreement. While Oliver carefully wiped down and locked up the guns, Paul swept up the empty casings scattered around and tidied up the area. Once they’d cleaned the range, the two finished packing up and headed back to the car.

\-- 

While driving to the range, Paul hadn’t said a word. On their way back, his mood was drastically changed, and he was back to his normally chatty self. Sharing his most action-filled stories as a getaway driver, he gesticulated so much that Oliver almost worried about him keeping the car on the road. And as he turned up the driveway to their house, a huge smile spread on Paul’s face as he saw a familiar figure just outside the entrance.

Parking the car quickly, Paul got out and almost bounced towards Flake, who was standing on the steps outside the door, jotting something down in a notebook. “How was your walk?” he chirped.

“Good. I was able to… What the hell happened to you?

Upon seeing Paul’s face, Flake dropped the notebook and the pen in shock, immediately inspecting Paul’s eye with a very worried expression. Though as soon as Oliver came walking over, the expression shifted dramatically.

“What have you done to Paul?” Flake hissed, tapping his index finger aggressively against Oliver’s chest. “If you hurt him, I swear I will hurt you _a lot_ more!”

Oliver’s face was one of pure surprise and confusion as he stared at Flake, who had puffed his chest up, and who - thanks to the steps - stood taller than him.

“No, I didn’t…” Oliver started, too perplexed by the whole situation to be able to come up with a good response quickly.

“TELL ME WHAT YOU DID TO HIM!” Flake raged, his face turning redder by the second.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Paul almost threw himself in between the two tall men. “He didn’t do anything, it was my own fault! I used a gun I couldn’t handle and hit myself in the face with the recoil!”

Flake kept glaring angrily at Oliver. “Why did you let him use a gun he couldn’t handle?” he accused, murder in his eyes while Oliver stood wide-eyed and silent with his mouth half open.

Paul continued to hold Flake back as he explained, “Look, I picked the gun even though he said I should start with another. He told me to be careful and work on my grip, but I fired it before he could stop me. It was my fault!” Paul desperately tried to get Flake to listen to him instead of staring daggers at Oliver.

“I’m sorry! I was just being pissy because - because - because I miss being close to you, because I’m afraid you will leave me, I’m afraid...”

Paul’s voice trailed off as Flake finally took his eyes off Oliver and turned to look at him, now with softness and a glimpse of pain behind the glasses. “You think I’m going to leave you?” he questioned, not trusting his ears to have heard the man correctly.

“Well, I don’t know…” Paul dug his hands into his pockets and looked down at his feet. He suddenly thought the idea sounded ridiculous with Flake standing in front of him, looking at him with disbelief.

“What on earth made you think I would leave you?”

Oliver coughed awkwardly, still almost in the middle of the other two. “I, uh, think I’ll just leave you to it…” He slid past Paul and Flake on the stairs, giving Paul a little encouraging smile as he left. Flake narrowed his eyes at Oliver as he went inside, but let him pass without poking him or accusing him of anything further.

Flake turned back to Paul. “I don’t understand. Did something happen? Why would you think I’d suddenly leave you?”

Paul kicked a foot against the ground, not looking up at Flake’s bewildered eyes as he said, “It wasn’t sudden. Ever since we moved here from the safe-bunker I’ve had this feeling that you don’t want to be around me anymore. You’re constantly going on long walks alone at night instead of coming to bed with me, you’re almost never affectionate anymore, and I just, well… I just feel lonely.”

The emotion in Paul’s voice made Flake’s heart break. “Paul,” he said, reaching forward and holding the side of Paul’s face gently, so as not to bump the bruise near his eye, “I had no idea. I just figured after how long we spent together in the safe house that you needed some distance, some breathing room. And as far as the walks, I can’t go to sleep unless I feel like I’ve secured the house, and most importantly *you*. That’s why I go out before I come to bed; I have to be absolutely sure you’ll be safe at night while we sleep. And for the affection, well…”

Flake rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “I feel awkward being so touchy with you when there’s three other men right there. I’ve not lived with so many people around me before, especially not while in a serious relationship, so it’s still kind of new to me. I promise I’ll try to get over it, though, especially if you’re feeling lonely because of it. I’m so sorry, Paul. I didn’t know.”

Paul got a mischievous glint in his eyes, then. “Does that mean you’ll also go back to making noise when we have sex…?”

A flabbergasted Flake let his hand drop from Paul’s face as Paul started cackling. 

“The look on your face right now - it’s priceless,” Paul snorted. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. But then again, it *is* nice to hear you moaning and--” 

Flake looked around briefly, then grabbed Paul’s face again and pulled him in for a very fast kiss to shut him up.

“There,” he said, releasing Paul. 

“Ow!” Paul protested. “You hit my eye.”

“And I also kissed you, out in the open where anyone could see.”

Paul smiled at that as he rubbed his black eye. “True. Thank you, Flake. It means a lot.”

Flake smiled at him fondly. “Anytime. Just be sure to tell me if things bother you, okay? I’m clearly not good at reading minds.”

“Deal.”

\-- 

The loud munching of Paul eating knäckebrot filled the kitchen. Normally, Flake would have insisted that Paul eat “real” food for at least one meal, but he was feeling kind today and wanted Paul to enjoy himself, so he didn’t say anything about it. Besides, that meant more Kartoffelpuffer and Bratwurst for the rest of them.

“That rifle you got is really something,” Till said to Oliver in between mouthfuls. “I have never seen anything like it.”

Oliver beamed at the mention of his new rifle. “It’s brand new, based on the Blaser R93 hunting rifle, and they just started production this year. I can’t believe Herr Schneider got me one, it must have cost a fortune!”

“After seeing you shoot it today, I’d say it was worth it,” Paul remarked. “That thing in your hands can work magic.”

Oliver looked down at his plate, blushing a little. “The weapon made it easier,” he insisted.

“I promise you that in my hands, that weapon wouldn’t have made any difference,” Paul laughed. “You are a damn good shot, and we should all be happy you will be shooting at the enemy and not at us.”

Without warning, Till stood up and spun around, gun drawn, aiming at the doorway. Two seconds later, Herr Schneider slid into sight, a bandage covering his right eye, his hands up in the air, and a big smile on his face.

“Goddammit,” Till mumbled, holstering the gun.

“Nice instincts there, Till,” Schneider grinned, patting Till on the back as he sat down on an empty chair. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. And just eat, don’t let me interrupt your lunch.”

The men around the table returned the greeting before hesitatingly going back to their food, still keeping an eye on their boss.

“How was the surgery?” Flake asked, noting the new-looking bandages.

Schneider kept smiling, but Richard noticed that the smile became a little stiffer. “There was significant damage. The surgery went well, but I won’t know if I will regain full eyesight until the bandage comes off.”

Till looked slightly uncomfortable, but didn’t say anything. While he felt an urge to apologise, he was not willing to do so. After all, Schneider had chosen to put himself in harm’s way by pretending to be an informant that they were supposed to kill. Till was sorry that Schneider had been seriously hurt, but he was not at all sorry for doing his job.

“Anyway--” Schneider changed the topic, “--how did you like the rifle, Oliver? A beauty, isn’t it?”

Oliver’s eyes lit up again. “Thank you so much, Herr Schneider, and yes, it is a spectacular weapon. Nothing I have tried comes close performance-wise. It is an honour to be allowed to use it, and your shooting range left absolutely nothing to be desired.”

“You are most welcome. Only the best for my best men,” Schneider smiled. “Which brings me to why I am here today. I have something for the rest of you as well.”

The kitchen suddenly became very quiet, and Schneider realised everyone had stopped eating and were staring at him.

“Just finish eating,” he chuckled. “Afterwards, we’ll go for a little drive.”

\-- 

“My god,” Richard breathed. “This is… this is incredible.”

The group was standing in a very average-looking office building, from the outside at least. Inside, true to his word, Schneider had outfitted the place with high-end equipment for each gang member.

Richard was currently fawning over a lavish computer setup, complete with state-of-the-art monitors and a desktop that was surely very top of the line. It looked both elegant and extremely expensive.

Flake, for once, was speechless, as he’d been shown to an office that had been transformed into a sort of laboratory with a section dedicated to surveillance. Another section of the laboratory could function as a fully equipped field hospital, dedicated to medicinal testing and surgery. Both were his specialties.

Till had been busy inspecting his new managerial-style office and meeting room, admiring the rich decor of each. His office was beautiful, separated from the rest of the complex to give him some privacy if he needed it, and the meeting room was spectacular. A box of very expensive Cuban cigars sat next to a gorgeous decanter of aged whiskey, tempting anyone who walked past. There was even a secret exit that led into a tunnel and far away from town, should they ever need to escape in a hurry.

Oliver had been given a small shooting gallery in a sound-proofed room. It was smaller than the outside gun range of course, but to blow off steam or practice precise maneuvers, the tiny gallery was absolutely perfect. The targets ran on electronic conveyors that would move back and forth depending on the shooter’s preference. 

Everyone was ecstatic. Everyone except Paul, that is, who’d slumped into a chair next to the little kitchenette.

Flake had been talking his ear off for almost ten minutes about the amenities of his new lab and surveillance office, and while Paul was legitimately happy for him, his happiness was short-lived when all he’d been shown was a small office decorated with exotic car prints, a well-equipped work bench, and a catalogue of black market explosive equipment he could order whenever he needed. He was grateful, but compared to the rest of the gang, he felt a bit left out and underwhelmed.

Gathering everyone in the meeting room, Schneider quickly went through the building’s security system and some practical information. Then he turned to Till, and pulled something out of his pocket.

“One last thing for you,” he said, handing Till a platinum card. “I trust you won’t abuse it.”

Till blinked. “Of course not,” he managed, trying to sound calm and collected while looking down at the incredibly powerful piece of plastic he held in his hand.

Schneider flashed everyone a million dollar smile. “Any questions? I hope you are all satisfied!”

Paul wanted to scream out “Not really”, but bit his tongue.

“You don’t seem entirely satisfied, Paul,” Schneider remarked, glancing at Paul with his eyebrows raised. “Anything wrong?”

“N-n-no sir,” Paul stuttered. “I am very happy, you have been most generous.”

“You don’t sound fully sincere, Paul,” Schneider commented. “Come outside with me.”

Flake automatically stepped up next to Paul, to accompany him as he felt suddenly concerned for him, but Schneider waved him away. “I just need a quick word with Paul alone.”

The tension in the room was palpable as the two men stepped out. Everyone looked worriedly at each other, and Flake paced impatiently back and forth, unable to relax. “I hope that he doesn’t…”

A loud scream from the outside interrupted him. Within seconds, he was out the door, the rest of the group just behind him with weapons drawn yet again.

Paul was leaping up and down and shrieking, while Schneider did his best to grab him and quiet him from alerting the entire metroplex.

“What the fuck, Paul?” Flake demanded, running up to him and checking to be sure he wasn’t hurt. “What happened?”

Schneider put his head in a hand wearily, but with some slight amusement. “Paul is rather excited about his “gift” here,” he said, gesturing at the car he’d driven to the office in, one that everyone had assumed was his personal vehicle.

It was a stunning silver 1998 BMW 540i, upgraded as much as it could possibly be while still maintaining something of a low profile. It was the perfect car, and Paul was over the moon.

“Are you _really_ serious?” Paul asked for probably the 30th time.

“Still serious,” Schneider promised, handing him the keys.

Paul leaped into the driver’s seat and proceeded to push and test every button, knob, switch, and level.

“It’s beautiful,” Paul breathed as he fired up the engine. He revved the gas a few times, grinning madly at the sound. 

“There’s also a private track for you to practice on whenever you’d like, just down the road,” Schneider said over the roar of the engine. “I take it you’re satisfied now?”

Paul threw the car in reverse and gunned the engine, flipping the car around in an impressively fast spin as a response. Schneider simply waved with a smile as Paul took off down the street in the car, apparently very eager to test it out immediately.

“He’d better come back and pick us up afterwards,” Flake said dryly.

Schneider turned to the four remaining men. “I’ll leave you for now,” he said with a nod. “Though I suggest you familiarise yourself with your new equipment. You will be hearing from me very soon. Enjoy, gentlemen!”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out that NikoNotHere and I was unable to let go of our Du hast AU. We hope you enjoyed this follow-up, and we would love your feedback on the story thus far!


	3. Liese

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **NikoNotHere:** For the summary, we could say something like "insert long thing"  
>  **Wahnsinn:** Too detailed, imo!  
>  **NikoNotHere:** What should the summary say instead? Something like, "Richard has a moment of insecurity."  
>  **Wahnsinn:** Sure!

“Alarms and cameras deactivated. You have 20 minutes. Paul?” Flake voice in his earpiece was clinical and to the point.

“All clear in the back. Olli?” Paul responded.

“Everything quiet. All clear,” Oliver replied.

“Copy.” Glancing over at Till, Richard got the nod he was waiting for. Scanning the duplicated ID card and punching in the code, the lock gave a satisfied click. They were in.

The office building was dark and quiet as the two men quickly made their way to the main office guided by the light from their headlamps. While Till went to work installing hidden cameras and microphones, Richard booted up the computer, clicking his tongue when he was able to brute force the password within less than a minute. Starting a download of the content, he set up his spyware giving him backdoor access to the system should he need it, confident that it would never be discovered based on the general lack of security measures and the amount of badly disguised porn folders. _People are so naive,_ the thought to himself.

“15 minutes.” Flake’s voice was terse but calm. Looking at the download status, Richard turned off the monitor and went to help Till.

Herr Schneider’s orders had come in the day after they got their new office. With a buyer already lined up, he needed them to acquire trade secrets from one of the major food manufacturers in the city - the quicker, the better.

They had given themselves one day of preparations. Flake had found a way to bypass security for 20 minutes before the backup would kick in. Paul and Oliver had staked out the site and charted the neighborhood. Oliver had found a vantage point on a roof from where he also was able to observe the codes of several of the workers, and Richard had swiped an ID card and copied it as well as prepared for hacking into the office computer.

Finally, Till had gained access to blueprints, set up a plan for entry and execution, and acquired all necessary equipment. Everything was meticulously researched and tested, yet Richard sensed that he was not the only one who felt a little pressure before their first ‘real’ assignment.

Till had placed the two cameras and microphones, and he was working on the safe he had found, not-so-cleverly hidden behind a painting of a rather unattractive naked woman holding a bowl of fruit. _At least no one in their right mind would want to look closer at it,_ Till mused. _And those who do will probably be so distracted by boobs that they don’t notice._

Flake’s voice came over the earpiece, “Ten minutes.”

Till very gently twisted the safe combination dial, feeling rather than listening to the minuscule clicks and movements of the tumblers inside. He had learned as a child the fascinating mechanics of locks, and spent many hours dissecting them, teaching himself how the different styles affected how the locks functioned and opened. Till wasn’t a master locksmith by any means, but he knew the basics, and that seemed to be enough as the safe tumblers clanked, allowing him to haul the lever to open it. 

A satisfied smile crept across Till’s face as he opened the heavy door. Sifting through the various items inside, he found some jewelry, a few photos, several documents in various binders and folders with cryptic names, and, ah! There it was.

A folder labeled “TERCES” caught his attention, and Till rolled his eyes.

“I guess this proves you don’t have to be clever to become a millionaire,” he muttered sarcastically.

The earpiece in Till’s ear crackled as Oliver spoke up, “Car. Lights off inside.”

Richard immediately turned off his headlamp, and Till heard him scramble around behind him for a moment. He turned his head and saw Richard holding up a blanket he’d taken from a couch by the window. “Now you can take the pictures without having to wait for cars,” Richard clarified.

A nod, then Till began to quickly snap photos of the documents, taking great care to photograph from several different angles to ensure they got what they needed. 

“Car gone,” Oliver said. 

“5 minutes; start packing up,” Flake added.

Richard folded up the blanket and tossed it back on the couch before going over to the computer. Turning the monitor on, he was happy to see that the download was done, and he quickly retrieved his equipment and switched the computer off.

Meanwhile, Till finished photographing the documents and returned them to their folder, making sure to put everything back exactly where it had been before, as if undisturbed. He closed the safe and locked it back up, placing the ugly painting back in all its glory.

“Three minutes. You need to start moving.” Flake’s voice held an edge now.

“On our way out,” Till assured, jogging out of the office with Richard on his heels.

Just as the pair exited through the back stairwell door, Flake’s even more anxious voice stated, “One minute. You’d better be out.”

“Done and done,” Till said. “Paul?”

The sleek car quietly rounded the corner, and Till and Richard hopped inside.

“Did we get it?” Paul asked as he smoothly spun the car around without so much as a squeaking tire.

“We got it,” Till said with a grin as he punched Richard lightly in the shoulder. “Good thinking with the blanket.”

“And good work with the safe cracking,” Richard said, giving Till a punch in kind. “It was really quick.”

“Olli, we’ll pick you up in five,” Paul said through the headset. “Coming to get you now, Flake.”

“Got it,” two voices echoed back.

\--

Back at their new office, Paul made coffee, as he insisted no one else could make it properly. Flake was busy developing the film in his lab, Richard was sorting through the data he’d copied as Till watched, and Oliver had gracefully draped himself onto one of their couches for a quick nap while waiting. 

“This guy is _really_ unorganized,” Richard complained, “and unprofessional. You should have seen the amount of porn he had on his computer.”

“Did you download it?” Paul yelled from the kitchenette. “I wanna see!”

“No Paul, I kind of chose to download the _important_ stuff, you know?” Richard replied dryly, going through yet another folder of useless documents.

Paul skidded into Richard’s office with a mug of fresh coffee. “Aw. The guys that don’t hide their porn usually have the best stuff.”

Till raised an eyebrow. “Where’s _my_ coffee?”

“Oh. Did you guys want coffee too?” Paul batted his eyelashes innocently. “You can have mine if you want!”

Till snorted as Richard sighed. “You drown yours in milk,” Till said, shaking his head. “No thank you. But we’d all like some fresh coffee if you don’t mind.”

“On it.” Paul bolted back out to the kitchen area, gulping his coffee as he went.

“I really don’t think _he_ needs coffee in the first place,” Richard muttered.

Flake walked into the room, squinting at a piece of paper. “Good news and bad news,” he declared, holding the paper sideways as he continued to inspect it.

“Good first,” Till said.

“The good is your photos are excellent. Very good shots.”

“Then why are you glaring at them like that?”

“Because the bad news is this isn’t a complete set of ingredients or a full recipe,” Flake said, wrinkling his nose.

“Did I miss something?” Till sounded shocked. He thought for sure he’d been especially careful to get photographs of everything in the folder.

“No, I don’t think so,” Flake said. “It looks like it’s just missing things, like a few key ingredients or something. It lists the full recipe, but has blanks in several spots like they clipped them out or something.”

“So, what?” Till asked. “They cut out parts to hide it better or something? Maybe not keeping it all in one place?

“The only reference I can find here is ‘Liese’. I don’t know what that means.” Flake shook his head.

“Liese?” Richard looked up from his computer. “I’ve seen that in here.”

Clicking through a few folders, he found what he was looking for. “It seems like Liese is the manager’s granddaughter. I have her name, address, and phone number here, even her birthday. It’s all in his address book. She lives on a pretty damn good address in Charlottenburg, and she is--” Richard paused for a few seconds to calculate, “--24 years old.”

“Pretty little thing as well,” Till remarked as Richard pulled up a photo from the folder.

“Let me see!” Paul slid into Richard’s office again, whistling when he saw the photo of the young woman with shoulder length, blond hair. “Her hair is almost like yours, Flake! If I weren’t gay…” Paul chuckled, looking mischievously over at his partner. 

“I sincerely doubt a woman could pull off half the things you enjoy with me,” Flake quipped as he raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, you know that no one can satisfy me like you can,” Paul said, faking shyness as he made his way over to Flake, getting up on his toes to give him a loud kiss on the cheek. Flake grimaced at the public affection but patted Paul on the head indulgently.

“You two should get a room. Oh wait, you already do have one together,” Richard chuckled.

“Speaking of getting a room…” Till scratched his chin. “Since this Liese’s name is mentioned in the recipe, and since we are dealing with a man who is clearly not the brightest, I have a hunch that she might be the key to our missing ingredients. I bet it must be somewhere in her apartment, because there is no way she would be able to afford that place at 24.”

Till put a hand on Richard’s shoulder and raised his eyebrows while grinning broadly. “And I know who’s got the job of getting into that apartment.”

\-- 

Soft piano music filled the penthouse lounge. Richard ran his hand through his now blonde hair, slicked to one side. He had left the jacket open on his well-fitted, semi-casual and he did not wear a tie; instead he had left the top two buttons of his shirt open, going for a relaxed, yet elegant look. The dark grey suit enhanced all the best parts of his body, and it complemented his-- for this occasion-- brown eyes.

When he had exited the bathroom after his transformation, blond and with his contacts on, Paul had looked at him big-eyed. “I swear I saw Clark Kent go into the bathroom,” he had mumbled, and Richard had given him a seductive wink, which had actually made Paul a little flustered.

The thought of Paul’s astonished face made Richard smirk. Walking slowly but confidently over to the bar, he ordered a whisky and sat down, taking an overview of the room. It was spacious, with comfortable chairs and small marble tables. A few sofas were placed along one wall, and on a small plateau, a pianist played slow jazz on a grand piano. 

A few groups of people were scattered around the room, talking quietly to each other, and he could hear women’s laughter now and then. Fortunately, the one he was looking for was not in a group. Not that he had expected it. While researching the manager’s granddaughter, he had found that she not only frequented the exclusive lounge, but also that she was single and enjoyed meeting new people. And right now, she was sitting alone on a sofa, sipping a martini while subtly scouting the room.

As she glanced over where he was sitting, Richard made sure to look directly at her, nodding, holding up his glass. Her eyes widened a little when she realized she had been caught staring, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she raised her glass too in a silent toast.

Too easy, Richard thought. Sliding off the barstool, he walked over to where she was sitting and flashed a smile. “Mind if I join you, Miss…?” he said smoothly, waiting for her to introduce herself.

“Just call me Liese,” she replied, equally smoothly. “Please, have a seat, Mr…?”

“Just call me Sven. Pleasure to meet you, Liese.”

Richard sat down, placing his whisky on the table in front of them.

“So, what is a handsome man like you doing here all alone?” Liese asked, letting her eyes slide across Richard’s face and body.

Richard was slightly surprised by her so obviously coming on to him, but he didn’t show it. Instead, he turned a little more towards her, as if inviting it. He’d been around his fair share of drunk, bold women, and was very familiar with how to steer the conversations to get what he needed. Women had become fairly predictable for him, at least once they were drinking.

Liese, however, merely sipped lightly at her martini rather than fully drinking. Her full attention was on Richard, and didn’t seem likely to sway anytime soon.

“I don’t frequent lounges much,” Richard said honestly. He’d discovered early on in his career that women were remarkably perceptive, especially to lies. He had instead figured out very clever ways of telling the truth in such a manner that never really divulged his true intentions. “I travel a lot for work, and rarely have time to relax.”

“You sound like a busy man. And what do you do in your work, Sven?” Liese cocked her head just a little, looking up at him with a half-smile that Richard was sure she had perfected on several dozen men before him.

“Communications,” Richard said, continuing to tell the truth, albeit fragments of it. “My boss has me meet with partners and discuss terms; lots of incredibly boring meetings, basically.”

Richard had no problems spotting that she wasn’t really interested in his work. “Please, let’s not talk about work right now,” he said with a little sigh. “I’m here to relax. How about we toast to that? To relaxation!”

Liese seemed quite happy to lift her drink, though she again just sipped rather than fully drinking after clinking the glass to Richard’s.

“Not a fan of the drink?” Richard asked, legitimately curious.

She gave a coy smile before answering, “I just prefer to be sober when I’m getting to know such a stunning man.”

Before Richard could deflect the compliment right back to her, as he usually did, Liese spoke up again, “At the risk of being too forward, would you like to come back to my loft for coffee? I try not to waste people’s time, you understand.”

For once, Richard was too stunned to reply right away. He’d never been so hurriedly asked out, especially not by someone still sober. The woman’s self-confidence and bold attitude had thrown him off his game. His stomach knotted uncomfortably as he tried to think on his toes.

“Well, I don’t see why not,” he found himself answering, “but I should let my boss know I won’t be making our phone meeting later. Give me just a moment.”

Richard winked at the woman as he walked off toward the bathrooms. Once he’d rounded the corner out of her sight, he whipped out his cell phone and hurriedly punched in Till’s number.

“Yes?” Till sounded a bit surprised. It was clear that he had not expected a call, especially not so soon.

Quickly explaining the situation, Richard let him know that Liese had invited him home already, that they would not need to pick him up at the lounge, and that he would keep them updated. As he hung up, he thought he heard Paul’s excited voice in the background, but it could have been his imagination.

Taking a deep breath, he went back into the role of Sven, and joined the woman who was waiting for him.

Liese smiled warmly at his return. “Shall I call us a cab, then?”

Richard forced a charming smile in return. “Absolutely. Just fair warning, my boss can be quite demanding, so if I get a call and have to cut the night shorter than I’d like, I apologize in advance.”

“I suppose we’ll have to make the most of it then,” the woman said with a wink as she finished her martini.

Though he continued to smile his devilishly handsome smile, Richard felt unease slowly creeping into his mind as they left the lounge.

\-- 

“So what happened? Did you find the thing? Did you have sex?” Paul was almost bouncing up and down in his spot on the couch from excitement. 

Oliver squirmed on the couch next to Paul, clearly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. Till was curious whether it was naiveté due to his age or just shyness that made him feel awkward about it.

Flake put a hand on Paul’s vibrating leg to quiet the man. “Let him speak, Paul.”

Fishing his box of cigarettes out of his pocket, Richard flipped one out and lit it without a word, needing the extra time it bought him as much as the nicotine. Inhaling deeply, the familiar taste in his mouth made him calm down a bit.

“No, I didn’t find anything, and no, we didn’t have sex,” he finally said. “I had to slow it down. She was too ‘on’-- if I had stayed, she would most likely have thrown me out afterwards, and the opportunity would have been lost.”

“But that’s what you’re supposed to be charming for!” Paul insisted. “You’re supposed to make her _want_ you to stay. Isn’t that what you’re good at?”

“Did she seem like she wanted to just get off and then kick you out?” Flake asked, also a bit puzzled by the turn of events. Richard had seemed so confident setting out that evening, but had come home much less so.

Richard took another drag of the cigarette. “I couldn’t be sure that she wasn’t, and I didn’t want to risk it,” he said, frowning a bit. “This was definitely not the first time she’d picked up a guy at that lounge.”

“But that’s good,” Paul said. “That means you had a surefire “in” at the very least to scope the place out better. We can break into houses just as easily or even more easily than offices, you know. You really couldn’t have stayed even just for that?”

“Paul, enough,” Till interrupted. “If Richard left, it was for a good reason, I’m sure. He’s a professional.” Despite his assured tone, Till glanced over with a hint of concern at his work partner.

Richard was dutifully tapping ash from his cigarette into the nearby ashtray, but Till noticed the tiniest of trembles along Richard’s fingertips as he did so.

“I felt like the safest way to make sure I would succeed at this was to pull out tonight. However, I told her I would make it up to her by taking her to dinner tomorrow, so you don’t have to worry about the mission. I know this means we need to spend one extra day to acquire the information Herr Schneider needs, but I would say it is a lot better to do that than to have to plan another break-in.”

Flake nodded in agreement, and while Paul grumbled a bit about not getting to hear any “juicy details,” he conceded the point as well. Oliver just looked relieved that the conversation was over.

“Then there you have it,” Till said, standing up. “We’ll plan for tomorrow, then.”

Flake and Paul stood up and said goodnight, retreating to their bedroom for the rest of the evening. Oliver quickly followed with a polite goodnight as well.

“Richard, come show me the layout of her house so we can figure out where a safe or lock box might be.” Till gestured for Richard to follow him to the kitchen.

With a short shake of his head, Richard said, “Can it wait until tomorrow? I’m exhausted. I think I’ll just turn in too. I’ll get back to you first thing in the morning though, yeah?”

When Till nodded, Richard stood up, stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray, and went upstairs. As soon as he got into the bathroom, he started undressing, getting rid of the suit that suddenly felt like a straightjacket. With the jacket and the shirt finally off, he splashed some cold water on his face. Leaning against the sink, he looked at himself in the mirror.

His scars screamed at him. Jagged, pale white lines crossed along his chest from the cuts. Erratic pale spots dotted and creased along his arms from the burns. He couldn’t see them from the front, but he knew the thin strips of scarring along his back stood out like arrows from the whippings. His body was a mess of torn and healed tissue and skin, and to him, it was damaged, irreparable…

Broken.

Richard’s grip tightened on the sink’s edge, whitening his knuckles as he clenched his teeth in frustration. His reflection just stared coldly back at him, refusing to change despite his mind desperately wishing otherwise.

“Women like scars, you know.”

Till’s voice jarred Richard from his intense stare-off, startling him. He spun around to see Till standing just inside the doorway, gazing at him impassively.

“The door was cracked open,” Till explained. 

“Right, yeah,” Richard stammered, gathering his clothes in a hurry. “Sorry. Here, you can have the bathroom.”

Till put a hand out to block the door, barring Richard from leaving. “I mean it,” he said emphatically.

“What?”

“Women like scars.”

Richard sighed in frustration. “Sure, that’s fine, whatever you say. I’m not worried what women think, but thank you.” He tried to push past Till’s arm, but found it was like trying to move iron.

“Then what are you worried about?”

Richard stopped trying to muscle his way out. “Nothing,” he muttered. “I’m just tired.”

Till was unconvinced. “What are you worried about?” he repeated, a bit more softly this time. “I promise you, women don’t just like scars, they _love_ them.”

Richard shook his head roughly and said, “Again, I’m not worried about what women think of me. I know good and well they’re attracted to me.”

“Then what? Afraid you won’t last long enough?”

“Not really,” Richard said, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “Sort of the opposite problem.”

He wasn’t entirely sure why he was talking about this at all, much less with Till whom he considered to be his superior. But for some reason, the man radiated concern and care, despite their different positions within the gang.

“Ahhh, I see. Well, if it’s any consolation, men find scars equally as attractive.”

Richard blushed, a little surprised that Till had caught his subtle hint so readily. His sudden self-consciousness made him gruff as he muttered, “And how would _you_ know that?”

“Because I’m a man,” Till said simply. “And I find them attractive.”

The blush on Richard’s face deepened, and Till noticed. He laughed and patted Richard on the back. “Don’t worry. I’m nothing if not professional. But, as your boss, I feel compelled to help you with your mission. I take it you’ve never been with a woman before, then?”

Richard shook his head, embarrassed and unable to say anything.

Till waved a hand dismissively. “It’s really nothing special, and sometimes you get lucky and they do all the work for you. It sounds like that might be the case with this Liese, based on how eager she sounds. I take it she immediately wanted to bed you?”

“Yeah,” Richard said, his face still hot. “She was extremely… forward. I guess I panicked a little when she got me in the house. I just pretended I got a text message, and told her my boss insisted on my being at a meeting, but promised tomorrow I’d take her to dinner and spend the evening with her.”

“Right, right,” Till said, eyeing Richard thoughtfully. “Well, if you need advice, I’m plenty experienced on both sides of the matter. I happened to be blessed with enjoying sex from anyone, without strong preference.”

“Oh,” Richard said, realization dawning on him. “I see. Have you ever had to be with people that were like, not your type or something? I just have no idea what to do when I have zero attraction to her.”

Till nodded as he said, “Oh yes; I’ve had to do that plenty of times. It sort of comes with the territory in our line of work.”

“How did you do it? How do you make it, well, work?”

Till looked over his shoulder out the doorway, then stepped further inside the bathroom and closed the door behind him. “I assume you’d not care for the others to overhear,” Till said, to which Richard nodded hurriedly.

After giving Richard a quick glance up and down, which gave Richard an odd feeling, Till said, “The most basic thing is getting them to face away from you. Foreplay is easy: just close your eyes and picture whatever you please. Try to move your hands along her body, like this. Women like it when you don’t go for their genitals straight off the bat.”

He took a step closer and dug his fingers gently into the blond hair. Looking deep into Richard’s eyes, Till let his hands run slowly from Richard’s head, down his cheeks, across his torso, slid them along his sides, and let them land squarely on Richard’s hips before giving an affirmative nod. Richard swallowed, but nodded in acknowledgement as well.

“I get the feeling she’ll move things along quickly,” Till went on. “As long as you can keep it up through the little bit of kissing she’ll ask of you, you’ll be fine. Once she pulls you to the bed, or wherever she decides she wants you, you’ll have to take control. Take it from me: confident women love it when someone else takes the reins. So!”

Richard found himself suddenly being bent over the bathtub. He reached out in surprise and braced his arms against the ledge as Till situated him.

Till continued unconcerned, as if doing no more than giving a lecture on mathematics, “Firmly but gently turn her around and put her where you want. I have yet to run into a woman who doesn’t love that, but if she’s picky and for some reason demands the missionary position, all you have to do is get it in. After that, you can close your eyes and hold her legs as if she’s so hot you can’t even look at her properly. It’ll drive her wild.”

In a desperate effort to keep his own body from being driven wild, Richard cleared his throat and asked, “And then?” He clamped his legs together tightly, stifling any feelings threatening to invade the “lesson.”

“And then, just let your mind go wherever it pleases,” Till said, removing his hands from Richard’s body. Richard straightened quickly as Till continued, “Don’t try to fake it either. Women take fake orgasms worse than not finishing at all, and most times take it as a challenge to get you off.” Here, Till winked at him with a knowing smirk, and Richard’s stomach did another flip.

“Th-thanks,” he stuttered out as he gathered up all of his clothes again. “That actually helps a lot.”

Till slapped him hard on the back, nearly knocking the clothes out of his hands again. “Don’t mention it. What are leaders for if not to help the rest of the gang? Let me know if you need any other tips.”

Richard rapidly shook his head as he made his way out of the bathroom. “I think I’ve got it pretty well covered now.”

“Good. Get some rest, then. Big day tomorrow, stud.” With another wink, Till parted ways with a still very red Richard.

Richard swallowed hard and ducked his head as he walked back to his and Oliver’s room. After a quick glance to be sure the other man was asleep, Richard released a huge sigh and flopped down onto his bed across the room. Though he tried to stay fixed on the tips Till had given him in preparation for tomorrow, Richard couldn’t hold his focus on the words. Instead, his mind wandered to the man’s hands on his hips, moving him effortlessly to bend over the bath and rubbing across his waist.

Richard’s own hands moved along with his mind, and he found himself grateful that Oliver was a particularly sound sleeper.

\-- 

Richard’s body was glistening with sweat. Moans filled the room as he pumped into the slim body bent over in front of him. Closing his eyes, he imagined the body broader and more muscular, the moans to be deeper and rumbly, the hands gripping the blanket to be bigger and stronger.

The dinner date had gone splendidly. After a pleasant meal at a high end restaurant, Richard had been as prepared as he could possibly be. Along with the group, he had gone through all scenarios he could think of, he had a mental map of the apartment and likely hiding spots, and disguised in a secret pocket in his messenger bag, he had tools and even drugs in case he should need to make sure Liese did not wake up while he was searching.

Interestingly enough, it turned out he did not need any of the tools he had brought. Gripping at hips to adjust the angle and push in a little deeper, the moans got louder.

Richard smiled to himself as he opened his eyes, enjoying the view of the secret recipe where it hung above the headboard of the bed - beautifully embroidered in backstitches by Liese’s grandmother.

_Cleverness did certainly not run in that family._

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked it, please let us know! If you didn't, please let us know as well!


	4. Tier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Wahnsinn:** We need a summary for Tier  
>  **NikoNotHere:** How about "Niko is too hungover for a summary. It's Wahnsinn's turn."  
>  **Wahnsinn:** : ((  
>  _A few days later_  
>  **NikoNotHere:** Should we add in: Niko: Flake makes a new friend. Till disapproves.  
>  **NikoNotHere:** So we don't end on my alcoholism

Flake hummed loudly to himself as he strolled down the sidewalk. It was beautiful outside. Well, it was beautiful to him. To most everyone else, it was a fairly dismal start to the day. The sky was crowded over with storm clouds and it was raining intermittently. There was a chill in the air as well, leaving small clouds of fog every time Flake breathed out with his hums. But to him, it was perfect. No one was outside because of the weather, and he wouldn’t get sweaty or hot walking through the cool sprinkles of rain. He was able to scout and think in peace, and it was wonderful. His humming increased in volume as he walked along, confident no one would think twice of him strolling down the sidewalks as he double checked the area. 

A faint noise startled him from his happy reverie. Confused, Flake looked around, trying to find the source of the odd sound. He heard it again, a combination of scratching and whining of some kind. Flake hunted down the sidewalk, nearing the sound as he got closer to some apartments. He finally realized the cries were coming from a garbage bin next to the apartment building. He peered inside cautiously, worried it might be an irritated rat or something, but was even more horrified at what he found.

Scratching weakly at the side of the bin, half-stuck in a black plastic garbage bag sat a tiny kitten. Without thinking twice-- which was unusual since he was reaching into a random, filthy trash bin-- Flake leaned in and scooped it up. He tutted at it, soothing its fearful mews and pitiful attempt to hiss and spit as he untangled it. The poor thing looked like it had been thrown away inside the bag, but managed to claw its way halfway out before getting stuck. Flake freed the small kitten and immediately tucked it into his coat, shushing and making low calming noises at it as he pressed its cold body against his own. 

“There, there,” he said in a quiet, sing-song voice, “you’re okay now, little one. Just warm up and I’ll get you home.”

There was not a moment’s hesitation or debate on what he would do with the cat. It was clearly abandoned, likely to die. In and of itself, that made Flake furious; but with how weakly the kitten was meowing, and the fact that it was shivering so hard tamped down his anger in favor of getting the kitten back home quickly. 

“A quick warm bath, soft towels, and some tuna-- that’s all you need to get right back in shape,” he cooed at the tiny animal that was very quickly falling asleep inside the warm jacket. He slid a hand into the jacket and petted it gently, careful not to jostle it too much.

Flake walked briskly home, occasionally peeking inside his coat to smile down at his sleeping friend. It was a grey tabby, with beautiful green eyes that were now closed as the kitten slept, its small chest moving as it breathed against Flake’s.

The noises of Flake locking himself back inside the house woke the kitten up again. Blinking up at him, the green eyes went straight to his heart, and Flake hurried into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He placed the kitten on the heated floor where it stood frozen, looking warily around, tail low and shaky legs as Flake got off his jacket and started filling the sink with lukewarm water. Picking the kitten up from the floor, he held it tightly, slowly lowering it into the water while talking quietly to it.

It was incredible how much noise could come out of such a small body. The kitten didn’t struggle much, but it was so loud-- it kept giving a high pitched, screeching mewling as if the water was boiling hot. “Shh, let’s not wake up the entire house,” Flake soothed, gently washing the dirty fur while the kitten looked at him with big eyes, whined a bit more, but eventually calmed down and let him finish the meticulous cleaning. He frowned when he discovered a small rip on one of the ears, but at least it seemed healed, and the cat looked otherwise in relatively good shape considering where he’d found it.

“Good kitty,” Flake almost purred himself as he lifted the animal out of the now dirty water, soon after enveloping it in a soft towel and carrying it into the kitchen.

Till, Richard, and Oliver were sitting by the table having breakfast. Flake hugged the towel closer to his chest as they all turned to stare at him. He could feel Till’s eyes burning into him, and he was relieved to turn away from the stares to retrieve a tin of tuna from the cupboard, only to feel the kitten fight to get out of the towel while meowing hungrily as soon as he opened it.

“See, I’m not going mad; I was positive I heard a cat,” Richard said triumphantly, while Oliver stretched his neck to try and get a glimpse of the animal.

Till sat in silence, but Richard noticed the stony face and the whitened knuckles around the coffee mug and just waited for the explosion. As Flake put the kitten down on the counter where it threw itself into the saucer of tuna he had prepared, Till slammed his fist onto the table so Oliver almost fell off his chair from the startle.

“GET THAT ANIMAL OFF THE COUNTER!”

Flake shrunk back. He had never heard Till that angry before. Willing himself to stay calm for the kitten’s sake, he gently lifted it off the counter and put it on the floor, where it meowed impatiently until the saucer was put down next to it. Growling, it continued stuffing its face while glaring at Flake, making sure to protect its food to the best of its ability.

“It’s off.” Flake took a deep breath and turned to look at Till whose fist was still clenched. “I would appreciate it if you kept it down. You can be angry at me, but please don’t scare my kitten.”

“ _Your_ kitten?” Till spat. “Have you forgotten what kind of business we’re in? We might have to leave in short notice, or be forced not to return to the house at all after a job. Pets do not fit into our lifestyle! Get rid of it!”

Flake gritted his teeth. “No. Someone already tried that. They put it in a plastic bag and dumped it in a trash can. That’s where I found it.”

“What did you find?” Paul didn’t look fully awake as he entered the kitchen, still in his pajamas and with his hair standing in all directions.

“A kitten,” Richard said, taking another bite of his slice of bread.

Glancing worriedly at Till, whose expression was anything but friendly, Paul made his way over to Flake. “Oh, it really is a kitten!” he exclaimed when he saw the small ball of fur licking the saucer clean.

“Of course it's a kitten. It's _my_ kitten. And I will not throw it out like some piece of trash. I'll keep it in my room and take full responsibility for it. End of discussion.” Flake scooped the kitten up from the floor and started towards the door.

“But Flake,” Paul begged, “I have a craving for pancakes and I was _really_ hoping you would make some for me; yours are the best!”

“It’ll have to be later. I'm taking my kitten up to my room,” Flake said, giving Till a defiant stare as he passed him on his way out. Till let him go, but he looked extremely unhappy about it.

“You love that thing more than me?” Paul whined, pouting a little as he reached for a pack of knäckebrot. “Besides, it’s _our_ room, not yours.”

Without a word, Till stood up and stomped out. For a second, Richard worried that he would be going after Flake, but instead, he heard the sound of the balcony door opening and closing. A big-eyed Oliver looked from Paul to Richard to the doorway, and decided that finishing his breakfast was a good course of action.

Not long after, Flake popped his head into the kitchen again, looking relieved that Till wasn’t there. “Just picking up the rest of the tuna and a bowl for water,” he said.

Richard cleared his throat. “You know Flake, Till may seem harsh, but remember that he has his first review session with Herr Schneider today. He's probably just nervous. I’m sure he'll calm down.”

“Mhm.” Flake quickly gathered the items he was after, giving Paul a quick kiss on the head before going back upstairs, leaving Paul looking like a giant - as much as he could possibly look like something giant - question mark from the unusual show of affection.

“It’s the kitten,” Richard shrugged. “Maybe by showing it affection, Flake might get less afraid of being affectionate towards you as well.”

Paul wasn’t convinced. “Or maybe he'll end up giving all his attention to that fur-ball and forget about me,” he sighed, taking another loud bite of knäckebrot. He had _really_ wanted pancakes.

\-- 

Till took a deep drag of the cigarette he had looted from the pack Richard left on the balcony. It had been years since he smoked, but he needed the distraction. While he would have preferred a drink to a cigarette, he couldn’t exactly show up drunk to the first of his monthly reviews with Herr Schneider.

If there was one thing he absolutely detested by being group leader, it was the reviews. In the beginning, he regarded them as jokes and learned to find the right amount of bullshit to keep the boss happy. Then…

The ambush.

Till would never admit it, but the set-up where he lost his former team still haunted his thoughts during the day and his dreams during the night. He would see the faces of the men he lost, the faces of the murderers, and the face of the man who caused it all.

Volker, his sharpshooter, was dead even before they realized what was happening. Of course they took him out first; they had to. For every second Volker was alive, the odds of the ambushers surviving would get worse. On bad days, the images of his brains getting blown out often went on repeat in slow motion in Till’s head.

He hadn’t been able to save Jörg either, who took two to the chest, his body writhing in pain for a few seconds as he went down and then fell still. Till could hear the screams from Tom, the driver, as blood pumped out from his thigh. He remembered dragging him behind cover and pulling off his belt to tie it around the leg as hard as he could, before lifting him across his shoulder, cutting the lights, shooting back to gain enough momentum to make a run for the closest of his secret escape routes.

Not until he had brought Tom safely to a hospital did it occur to him how Emanuel had always hung back as they returned to base after jobs, and how he never saw him in the shooting. And as he learned that Tom would live, but lose his leg, an unprecedented rage had stirred in Till, a rage that culminated in him getting the truth out of Emanuel, the truth about how a piece of pussy had made him reveal the group’s plans, and how the cowardly asshole hadn’t dared coming clean about it. Instead, he'd made sure to always stay back in case something should happen.

Another drag of the cigarette, along with the thought of how he had made Emanuel suffer, calmed Till down a bit. He found it ironic how the most gruesome acts he had ever committed could give him peace of mind. Moreover, they also boosted his credibility and made sure people didn’t lose respect for him, which would have been normal after losing a team in that manner.

Yet he couldn’t help to think that he could have known, he should have known if only he had observed his group members more closely, if only he hadn’t grown so fond of them that he trusted them blindly - if only he had taken the reviews more seriously... 

At least those were mistakes he would not make again.

Stumping the cigarette in the almost full ashtray, Till took a deep breath and went back inside to prepare for his review.

\-- 

As usual, Herr Schneider didn’t arrive - he just _appeared_. Till had come into the office early in order to look over some notes, and suddenly he realized that he was not alone anymore.

“Come in, Herr Schneider,” he said, without looking up from his notes.

Seconds later, Schneider appeared in the open doorway. “Good instincts as usual,” he remarked, sitting down in one of the comfortable chairs in the corner, where Till had placed a thermal jug with coffee along with two cups. As Schneider poured coffee, Till gathered his papers and joined him.

He had been surprised when Schneider - which he at the time only knew as Herr Rammstein - contacted him merely a few days after he had disposed of his loose-mouthed team member. Till had expected to be demoted back to grunt status, which made him even more surprised when he was offered a new group straight away. “Can’t let a man of your caliber sit and twiddle thumbs. Gotta get back on the horse,” Schneider had said, and while Till had been grateful, he also had his worries. Getting a new group to function together was not always easy.

“So, how is the new team?” Schneider asked, sipping his coffee.

Till knew the seemingly innocent question had a lot more to it than what it sounded like. Weighing his words, he took a few seconds to think before speaking up.

“Considering how new it is, I would say it is solid,” he said, making sure to keep eye contact with Schneider to try and read his reaction.

“I agree,” Schneider nodded. “After your spectacular initial test, I was curious to see if you would manage to follow that up, but the work I've seen so far has indeed been solid. Judging from your report after the corporate sting, I have to commend you on how you solved it. My client was very satisfied with the intel, and according to feedback, the placement of the cameras and the microphones was excellent.”

“Happy to hear that.” Till took a sip of his coffee, anticipating the next question.

Schneider leaned back in the chair, studying Till. “Tell me about Richard.”

 _Richard_. Till had been extremely wary of the communications expert, partly because he knew how manipulative they could be, and partly because that had been Emanuel’s role in his former group. Initially, he had argued that he could handle that role himself, but Schneider wouldn’t have it.

Till remembered the very one-sided conversation they had about the topic. “Listen, Till,” Schneider had said, “This is a man with top grades and ridiculously high scores on every test, but who has been grossly underestimated because of his looks. He withstood six days of torture in jail without breaking. Plus, you don’t have to worry about him being honey-trapped: he's gay. I don’t care if you don’t want him. I do. End of discussion.”

After that, Till had researched the man, trying to find something, anything he could use to force Schneider to pull him from the group. Nothing. Everything he dug up supported Schneider’s view on the man being underestimated and reliable. Till remembered reading through classified intel on Richard’s days in jail, wondering how anyone could go through something like that without any mental scars. The thought of him being some kind of psychopath had occurred to him.

That is why he had almost been relieved when he saw Richard’s reaction after his first meeting with Liese. The man was human after all, and Till found that he had not only lost his skepticism towards Richard, he actually sympathized and cared about him. Their little talk in the bathroom had cemented his view on Richard as solid, in spite of the issues he clearly dealt with in his own way - after all, everyone in their business had their issues, including himself, and the only thing that mattered was that they didn’t interfere with their work.

Till had enjoyed Richard’s surprise when realizing the nature of his leader’s sexuality. Since Till had always thought of himself as mostly a charmer, given that he considered himself to be fairly unattractive physically, he was flattered by Richard’s discomfort during the following lesson in how to handle people he didn’t find attractive.

Fortunately, Till also knew how to handle people he _did_ find attractive. That night, he had wondered what it would be like meeting Richard in another life, under different circumstances, allowing himself to entertain that thought for a just a quick moment of pleasure at bedtime, before pushing it aside and resuming his air of professionality.

“You were right,” Till said, his face not revealing anything about the thoughts going through his head. “His technical skills are exceptional, and he has proved that he can think on the spot and adapt fast. I shouldn’t have questioned your research.”

“Oh, you should definitely question decisions you don’t agree with,” Schneider said pensively. “That is the one trait that really sets you apart from the bunch.”

Till raised an eyebrow from the unexpected praise. “Appreciate it.”

While he did in fact appreciate it, he knew that there were expectations behind the compliment. After all, Till had been part of the organization since he was a young man. He had always been a curious person, wanting to understand things, how it all worked. As a kid he did well in school, but he questioned everything, which automatically made him a troublemaker in East Germany where there were certain things you just weren’t supposed to question.

Till also liked to take things apart and put them together again. Or at least he tried to put them back together, and the many beatings he’d received for failing at that just made him dead set on succeeding the next time. “You’re so stupid; when are you gonna learn?” his father always told him before punishing him, which happened so often that Till had stopped caring. The pain was just temporary, and it would pass soon enough. Till knew how it worked, so he was not afraid of it.

Maybe that is why the older boys had let him hang with them. Till had been bold, brave, and eager to prove himself. While the others feared repercussions, Till had no problems lying, stealing, or sneaking into places he wasn’t allowed to go. The way he saw it, the worst thing that could happen was that he got caught and beaten up, which he was already used to from home. This fearlessness made him good. Really good.

Till had just turned 17 when he got caught shoplifting, and only because one of the others had decided to hang around the entrance looking extremely suspicious. Since it was a misdemeanor, the police officer just drove him home to his parents. That was the last time he saw them. As soon as the police officer was gone, Till was told to pack his things and get out. “You want to steal? Go live as a thief. You’re a disgrace to our family!” was his father’s last words before slamming the door shut behind him.

It’s funny how people like you when things are going well, but shy away as soon as things go sour. Suddenly, the ones Till thought were his friends didn’t feel like hanging with him anymore. Alone, with no place to live and no money, he found shelter in an abandoned building, or at least he thought it was. In reality, it was controlled by a local group in the organization.

“Gert always said you’d end up a leader one day,” Schneider said, almost as if he had read Till’s thoughts.

Till could see that he was looking for a reaction, and clenched his jaw, working hard to look unaffected. He hadn't been prepared to hear that name again.

Gert’s gang had been less than pleased at finding a random kid in their territory. Quite a few swear words had left Till’s mouth that day as he was hauled to a different part of the building and tossed unceremoniously onto the floor of an office. He remembered how the bald man behind the desk had straightened his glasses while studying him as he swore some more, got back on his feet, and headed for the door, only to run head first into a burly man who stepped in front of it.

“Lindemann. Well, well, well, what do you know.” Gert had sounded amused rather than angry.

“How do you know my name?” Till spun around to face the bespectacled man.

“This is my area. I know what goes on here. So I know what you and your friends have been up to.”

“They're not my friends. At least not anymore,” Till had muttered. “And what do you mean, “ _your_ area”?”

Gert had just laughed. “Even better, because I’ve heard that you're the skilled one. How about you accept a job offer from me, and I will tell you all about _my_ area.”

Till smiled softly at the memory of the man who had become a father figure to him, one that didn’t hit him or tell him he was a disgrace. While Till had certainly done his share of stupid things, Gert taught him how to learn from his mistakes, encouraged his curiosity, and cultivated his fearlessness. Over the years, the young boy was molded into a well-rounded, skilled, and knowledgeable man, and when Gert fell ill, there was no question who should take command while he recovered.

Only he didn’t.

“I just wish it had happened differently,” Till said bitterly.

“We all do,” Schneider agreed. “Unfortunately, someone rising in ranks in this business normally means bad news for someone else.”

Till nodded. He had heard stories about how Schneider got into position as the leader of the organization after their first boss had been assassinated by the rivalling Scorpion group. The two most obvious candidates to take over had accused each other of having fed the Scorpions information. Lots of drama ensued until a mysterious Herr Rammstein had them killed in a fairly spectacular way, claimed the position, and told anyone who wanted to challenge him to do so.

No one did. Herr Rammstein made sure the Scorpions paid dearly for their deed, and since then, he had been a very present, yet very anonymous head of the organization. Under his lead, what was now simply dubbed the Rammstein group had grown into the most influential gang in Berlin.

“Speaking of rising in the ranks,” Schneider noted, “Oliver has managed to raise quite a few eyebrows on the range. His skills seem quite exceptional. What is your impression so far? Any weak points?”

The young man had certainly impressed Till. His former sharpshooter had been so strong that Till never thought anyone could replace him. Yet Oliver had a much wider repertoire: he seemed to master any weapon given to him; his agility, body control, and coordination was almost unheard of considering his height; and he had close combat skills that Till had never seen before.

“I have to say I agree with you that his skills are exceptional,” Till said, making a mental note of getting to know his youngest team member better, realizing that he hadn’t talked much to him apart from during group meetings. “He can come across as a little hesitant when it comes to social interaction, but it's not that strange with his background as an athlete. I don’t see it as a problem. Considering his role in the group, being quiet is a strength rather than a weakness, and he has a remarkable ability to stay calm and focused.”

Schneider nodded, running a finger thoughtfully along his chin. “That does tend to help, yes. What in particular makes him hesitant?”

“He seemed quite uncomfortable when we discussed the intimate matters of the last assignment. My guess is that he doesn’t have a lot of sexual experience given the rigid training schedules he must have gone through. Also, interpersonal conflict, like infighting with the gang or verbal spats makes him more withdrawn. That said, there isn’t much conflict with this group at all. Paul gets testy now and then but Flake cools him down quickly.”

“Ah, that brings up another point I wanted to discuss: Paul and Flake. I picked them specifically because of their penchant for staying alive. I’m not sure how much you know, or if they’ve mentioned what happened to their last group or previous groups, but those two have been through more than their fair share. This gang marks their fourth that they’ve been part of.”

Forcing himself not to react, Till asked, “They had three other groups before this one?”

“Yes, and believe me, I spent long hours making sure that those gangs’ downfalls weren’t the result of Flake or Paul’s missteps. They just were mostly unlucky, yet still managed to stay alive regardless. It’s almost supernatural. But beyond that, I was also impressed with their field skills. Paul can drive better than anyone I’ve seen and his experience with explosives is unmatched. Flake knows more about surveillance and chemistry than most leading researchers in those fields. I suppose my only concern is whether you think they can function on their own, without one another.”

Till had to think about that for a moment. Could they? He’d really only seen the two work as a unit, with Flake evening out Paul’s hot temper, and Paul lending some humanity to Flake’s aloof attitude. He had his suspicions that, even though Paul seemed the needier of the two, Flake needed Paul just as much; he just didn’t make it as obvious.

“I think,” Till began carefully, “that their symbiosis is more of a benefit than a drawback.”

“Oh?” Schneider steepled his fingers over his mouth in interest.

“They don’t just cover each other’s weaknesses, like some pairs do. They compensate for them, of course, but they also boost each other’s strengths. Flake seems more capable with Paul lending a hand, particularly with the surveillance since Paul can drive so well; and Paul’s temper--which is really his only big flaw-- gets converted into productivity and eagerness that would be misplaced otherwise.”

Schneider made a humming noise, seemingly deep in thought. “That’s all well and good, but my question still stands. If one of them were to disappear for whatever reason, could the other function without him?”

“I don’t know,” Till said honestly. “But I don’t see that happening. They’re extremely alert, especially when it comes to one another. Their priority is the group, though; they can’t stay safe if the gang itself isn’t safe, so they go hand-in-hand.”

“I’m still a bit wary of them,” Schneider said, crossing his arms. “Pairs are a lot more likely to defect if the need arises, especially if it’s in their own best interests.”

“I don’t see that happening, like I said,” Till insisted, though he worried that this wasn’t what Herr Schneider wanted to hear. “If I thought they were likely to run or betray us, you’d be the first to know. They’re far more of a benefit right now than a detriment, and I’ll know if that changes.”

“Well, if you’re confident that they’re not a liability, then that’s good enough for me… for now. But rest assured I have no problem separating the two if the need arises. Take care that it doesn’t,” Schneider said with a smile. He stood up and patted Till a bit too hard on the shoulder.

Refraining from swallowing, Till nodded his head stiffly. “Yes sir.”

“Good. Well, that answers everything I needed today. Take care, Till, and I’ll see you next month if not sooner.”

Schneider walked to the door, pausing next to the shelf with Till’s humidor. He opened it, carefully selected a cigar that suited his fancy, then raised it at Till as he left the room.

Till rolled his eyes once he was sure Schneider was gone. Of course he’d picked one of Till's favorites. At least the meeting seemed to have gone well enough - and the platinum card could always get him more cigars.

\-- 

Flake stomped his boots off outside before tapping in the code to their house and going inside. He carefully took off his muddy boots and set them in the coat closet beside the door. Flake tiptoed across the entryway and back up to his room to see the kitten, being careful not to make noise and wake up anyone in the house. He had wanted to bring the kitten with him on the surveillance walk, but knew it probably needed the rest inside in the warmth instead.

As he got upstairs, Flake felt his heart drop when he saw the door to his and Paul’s bedroom slightly ajar. He rushed inside, going over to the little box he’d made up for the kitten. 

It was empty. 

“Paul!” Flake snapped in a hushed voice, turning his attention to his partner. “Where’s the kitten?”

Paul, who until this point had been dead asleep in bed, groaned and rolled over in confusion. “What?”

“The _kitten_ ,” Flake hissed, searching frantically under the bed and in the closet. “Where is it? I asked you to watch it while I was out!”

“Oh, yeah. I just let him sleep in his box. He wasn’t going anywhere so I went to bed too.”

“He’s not there. Get up and help me look before Till sees.”

Paul yawned and flopped out of bed begrudgingly. “I’m sure he’s just playing around with some string or something.”

Flake made an exasperated noise. “He’s not in the room. You check upstairs, _quietly_ , and I’ll look downstairs. Don’t let Till see you. He’ll kill us if the cat tears anything up.”

“I’m not the one who brought it inside,” Paul reminded him.

Flake shot him a death glare, to which Paul quickly amended, “Fine, fine, I’ll look.”

As Paul continued the search upstairs, Flake crept downstairs carefully, scanning every corner and shadow in the darkened house for the small animal. He didn’t call for it, afraid that Till might hear. He didn't even have a name for it anyway.

A murmur caught Flake’s attention as he neared the living room. One of the lamps was on, and as Flake slowly inched closer, Till’s voice carried back to where he could hear.

“You’ll have to go back upstairs soon. Yes, I know you’re warm and happy on my leg, but Flake will lose his mind if he sees you gone. I’m sorry I was so gruff earlier. I just can’t have too much emotion showing, you know. I’m the leader. I have to remind everyone not to get too attached to things, because you never know when they might get torn away from you.”

Flake continued to listen, and heard Till sigh heavily. “Like this group. I think I’ve found the one that fits, and everyone is getting on so well with one another. I just have to be careful. I’m getting attached.”

He heard another sigh, and then a little chuckle. “Besides, I knew Flake wouldn’t actually get rid of you. And to be honest, I’m glad. Now then, let’s get you back upstairs, little Müllchen.”

Flake’s eyes widened and he scampered back up the stairs before Till got up and saw him eavesdropping. He ran into his room, yanking Paul along with him.

“Ow, hey, what--”

Paul’s protest was cut short as Till walked in. “Your cat,” Till said, holding the kitten out by the scruff to Flake.

Flake took him quickly, cradling the little animal. “Thank you,” he said, looking up at Till warily.

“If I see even one rip on the furniture or one puddle of piss anywhere, he’s out the door. Understand?”

With a hurried nod, Flake said, “Yes, of course.”

“Wait, he can keep it?” Paul asked in confusion. “I thought you said--”

“We’ll make sure he stays in here and doesn’t tear anything up,” Flake interrupted, elbowing Paul hard to shut him up.

“We??” Paul was indignant now.

Till’s mouth twitched almost into a smile. “Your room will get a little cramped for it after a while. Make sure to teach it not to scratch things and to use its litter tray when he starts getting bigger."

“Absolutely. Thank you,” Flake said as Till went into the hallway.

As he walked out, Till heard Flake instructing Paul, “Now see, this is exactly what I mean when I say you need to take care of things when I’m gone. If Müllchen gets out again when we don't see, he might get into trouble and Till won't be this kind next time."

“Müllchen?! That’s a terrible name!”

Till paused, musing on how much of his conversation with the cat Flake must have overheard. Ah well. It probably didn’t hurt that Flake knew he cared about them. Flake could at least keep his mouth shut. If it had been Paul, on the other hand…

He chuckled as he heard Paul’s loud voice arguing over the kitten’s new name, with frantic shushing from Flake telling him to keep quiet. With a shake of his head, Till walked down the hall to his room.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made the name Müllchen from the German word Müll (trash, garbage) and the suffix -chen, which makes it mean "tiny trash". Our Müllchen is inspired by the kitten [Liberty](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/D_tar4rX4AA501L.jpg), which was dumped in a [trash can](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/D_rzsfJXsAAjUoZ.jpg), but was found and [rescued](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/D_sVDBjX4AgIQ1c.jpg) by Robby Starbuck and his family.
> 
> As always, we are very grateful for any feedback on this AU!


	5. Stirb nicht vor mir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For some strange reason, NikoNotHere is particularly giddy about this chapter.

He hadn’t even heard the gunshot, but he saw the result. Blood started staining the white shirt red, and Paul grimaced, his face pale from the sudden pain. “You have to drive,” Flake heard himself say, urgency in his voice while he tried to remain calm, “you’ve been shot, and we need to get away, _now_!”

The day had started out so well. For their date night, which they tried to squeeze in weekly if it fit their schedule, the two of them had decided to go to Eberswalde. Paul loved driving, and he also loved Eberswalder Spritzkuchen, the specialty pastry that he insisted tasted better when baked in the city of its origin. Flake didn’t argue with that; he was happy as long as he got some Streuselschnecke for himself.

After enjoying coffee, pastry, and each other’s company at their favourite bakery, they had decided to bring some extras with them to the house. As they got back in the car, Flake had leaned back to place the pastry in the back seat. That’s when it had happened. Someone had shot at them, Paul had been hit, and now he was flooring the gas pedal while Flake desperately tried to contain the bleeding from both the entry and the exit wound. But who had shot at them, and why?

Flake couldn’t wrap his frantic mind around it right now, as he was currently busy clamping his hands around Paul’s heaving abdomen. After some fast mental calculations, Flake knew at the rate Paul was losing blood, they’d not make it back to their office and his medical setup before Paul lost consciousness.

“Shit, okay take a left,” he directed, calming his voice as he decided on an alternate route to a nearby hospital.

Paul nodded stiffly, his jaw tightly clenched and his face drained of color. Flake was amazed at how well his partner was able to stay concentrated on driving despite the pain. Adrenaline was a hell of a drug. And speaking of drugs, Flake hadn’t brought anything with him, dammit. Not even a tiny field kit. 

He readjusted his hands to press more of Paul’s shirt against the wounds, cramming it hard against him to try and stop it further. Paul grunted, the only sign he gave that he was in severe pain, and it made Flake’s heart ache for him.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Flake repeated desperately, more to himself than to Paul, as Paul didn’t seem to hear it. Paul was focused on his breathing-- heavy grating breaths in, short trembling breaths out. He was doing his best not to hyperventilate, as that would throw off his ability to drive.

“Just a little further, take a right here,” Flake said, still fighting to keep his voice level and even. “You’re doing fine; you’re going to be fine.”

“I know,” Paul said through gritted teeth. “You keep telling me, so it’s gotta be true, right?” He tried to laugh to lighten the mood as he always did, but the laugh was cut short with a sharp gasp as they went over a hard bump, jostling Flake’s hold. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Flake said, readjusting yet again. His arms were shaking from both the effort and the tension, but he refused to let go or loosen his grip. 

“Please stop saying that,” Paul hissed desperately.

Flake looked up and saw tears leaking from the corners of Paul’s eyes. His face was locked in a tight grimace and his eyes never left the road. “Where now?”

“Keep straight. Hospital will be on the right in three blocks, emergency entrance right at the front. No one’s been following us and I’ll text Till the moment I get you inside.”

“Okay.” Paul’s voice was little more than a whisper, and Flake could see him fading fast. He prepared himself to jump up and slam on the brakes if Paul passed out before they made it, but Paul hung on. They screeched into the emergency entrance, slamming hard through several parking spots and blocking an ambulance exit, but neither man cared. The second that Paul had thrown the car into park, Flake was pulling him across the seat and through his side of the car. He didn’t dare let off the pressure on Paul’s stomach to run around to the driver’s side to get him out.

Flake hurriedly pressed more of Paul’s shirt against the wounds and helped heft him up out of the car, yelling to a nurse smoking outside by the entrance to bring a gurney. They were walking to the entrance, but too slowly.

Paul muttered something that Flake couldn’t hear, then went limp in Flake’s grasp. He staggered at the sudden dead weight in his arms and tried to ease Paul to the ground without letting him drop or removing his hands from their places. Paul’s head lolled back and his eyes rolled as he passed out from the blood loss.

Flake let loose a string of frantic curses as he internally begged any god that would listen to save his partner. He couldn’t lose him, he couldn’t. He couldn’t lose someone again.

\-- 

He had been so happy. His dear wife, his beautiful daughter, their stunning home, his prestigious job-- all had been so perfect then… perfect until that man had approached him.

Flake had been head researcher for a very large pharmaceutical company, far before anything criminal had ever even crossed his mind. He’d gone to medical school, early of course, and graduated just as early with highest honors. His passion had been analgesics, specifically the creation and clinical trials of new painkillers. Flake had spent nearly five years testing and perfecting his own version of a painkiller that would have been both far stronger than the most common varieties as well as ten times cheaper to produce. Three years ago he’d been very nearly ready to begin clinical trials for it when _that man_ had approached him.

He’d been given no name, just a card that read “Scorpion Syndicate.” The man explained he was an ambassador for that company, and had heard wonderful things about Flake’s new drug and impending trials. He was interested in both purchasing stock in Flake’s current pharmaceutical company as well as offering him a new job once the drug had passed clinical trials.

Flake had not been surprised. The pharmaceutical and biotech industries were fueled by money, and bidding wars as well as sniping top researchers and relocating them to better serve various companies was quite common. However, he had never heard of this “Scorpion Syndicate” before, and he was well-versed in all of the top biotech companies worldwide. He had become mildly suspicious, wondering whether it was actually a legitimate company at all. Thanking the man for the offer, he had politely declined, stating he was very happy with his current position.

While at the time, the man was quite polite, Flake had then received several very sternly and almost threateningly worded letters, implying that if he didn’t join the “Scorpion Syndicate," he would regret it. 

Flake had scoffed at the veiled threats, feeling invincible with the power his current position afforded him. He was extremely wealthy, and though he’d certainly dabbled in various gray areas as far as the law was concerned-- mainly facilitating large discounts on medicines to other extremely wealthy individuals and organizations-- he’d kept his nose relatively clean, and thus felt no concern over the letters. He’d thrown them away, thinking no more of them than the dozens of other job offers he received each month, and outright ignored the barely covered threats against him.

And then he came home one night, exhausted from working an exceptionally long shift until nearly morning. Flake heard the sirens from several streets down, causing him mild concern as he drew nearer to his house. When he finally turned onto his road, his heart leapt into his throat as he saw the collection of firetrucks surrounding the blackened skeleton of what used to be his home.

Screaming, he ran past the police line, calling for his wife and daughter as he tried to get to the house. A fireman grabbed him and hauled him back, trying to tell him it wasn’t safe and to keep away from the still smouldering wreckage.

“Let me go,” Flake insisted, wrestling and trying to get away. “I need to find my family!”

Just as he broke free of the fireman’s grip, Flake turned his head and saw two stretchers being wheeled from the scene, blankets covering both. 

He froze, feeling the air ripped from his lungs in realization.

A police investigator approached him, trying to tell him about a gas leak, but Flake didn’t listen. He couldn’t. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. Falling to his knees, tears streamed silently down his face. 

He knew there hadn’t been a gas leak. Both he and his wife were meticulous about the stove and had never left it on. They barely even used it. All the threatening letters and shady insinuations from the “Scorpion” organization came flooding back to his mind, though part of him still insisted it wasn’t possible. 

Insurance had covered the house fully, and then some, as it had come to light that their brand of stove had a manufacturer’s defect that occasionally resulted in leaks. The funeral arrangements and ceremony had gone by in a hazy blur, seeming unreal to him, as if he were watching a movie of someone else’s life. 

And then, the damned letter. 

Flake had gone back to his temporary hotel room after the funeral, still feeling like his entire body was numb, despite having refused to take any medication though many of his colleagues had advised it. As he opened his door, he nearly stepped on an envelope that was sitting just inside on the floor. He opened it, and his numbness became instantly replaced with a white hot rage as he read the printed letters on expensive, cream-coloured paper:

“Now that we have your attention, we urge you to reconsider our offer. 

Sincerely,  
The Scorpion Syndicate”

\-- 

Flake was jarred from his memories by someone shaking his shoulder. He looked up and saw Richard and Oliver’s concerned faces looking down at him.

“We came as fast as we could,” Richard said, somewhat out of breath with his laptop under an arm. “Till stayed back to talk to Herr Schneider.”

“Is he all right?” Oliver asked quietly.

Flake shook his head miserably. “I don’t know. He passed out when we got here and they took him away.”

At the word “away,” fresh tears brimmed in Flake’s eyes, and he felt the distance from his partner like a physical pain in his chest. His mind was racing madly, tormenting him with thoughts of Paul dying under anaesthesia, never waking up because of too much internal damage, and Flake never again getting to see the sparkle in his mischievous blue eyes.

He rubbed his eyes hard to stop himself from crying, and took a deep breath. “The initial assessment was better than expected, but imaging was inconclusive. They couldn’t tell how bad it was so they had to operate immediately.”

Oliver sat down next to Flake on the bench just beside the door in the otherwise empty waiting area, putting a comforting arm around Flake’s shoulders. The sympathetic gesture brought even more tears to his eyes, and Flake buried his face in his hands, unable to stop the sobs now.

“It’s my fault,” Flake cried. “If I hadn’t turned around to put the pastry in the back seat, the bullet would have hit me instead! It should have hit me, not Paul!”

“You can't blame yourself for someone else shooting at you,” Oliver said calmly, digging into his pocket for a pack of paper handkerchiefs, offering them to Flake. “But anything you remember about the shooting might help. Did you see where the shot came from? And why do you think they were aiming at you and not Paul?”

Taking the pack of handkerchiefs from Oliver, Flake pulled one out and blew his nose, tears still streaming down his cheeks. “Because it must have been a sniper, probably on a roof some distance away since I didn’t even hear the shot. Based on the estimated trajectory, it would have hit me for sure if I hadn’t turned around,” he sniffled.

Richard raised an eyebrow at Flake’s impressive ability to think while in distress. He fired up his laptop and quickly plotted in the information, while simultaneously relaying it to Till. Asking Flake a few questions about their exact location and cross referencing that with a map of Eberswalde, he soon had an estimate of where the shooter must have waited for them.

“The car!” Flake suddenly blurted out, trying to stand up. “I forgot to move it!”

Oliver gently held him down. “We saw it when we arrived and parked it for you. Don’t worry about it,” he soothed. “But Flake - could you think of anyone who would have reason to want you dead?”

Flake’s shoulders slumped down, and he buried his head in his hands. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Several.”

\-- 

The letter from the Scorpions had made Flake’s mind explode with fury. Fuelled by rage and grief, he acquired a gun and visited every shady place he could find, asking about the Scorpion Syndicate. For once in his life, he had a total disregard for the possible consequences of his action; Flake just knew he needed to find them and make them pay.

Paul had rolled his eyes when the call had come in from his informant Aljoscha about this random guy who looked like a mad professor, asking frantic questions about where to find the Scorpions. Though when the organisation found that this Flake Lorenz person was a renowned pharmaceutical researcher, Paul had been sent out to find out what the man was after.

Aljoscha had been right. The man looked like a mad professor, with bedraggled, unkempt hair and stubble that suggested he’d not shaved in close to a week. His clothes hung loosely off his body, their style suggesting he spent far more time in a lab than out and around other people. He had large, black plastic glasses that made him look even more like a stereotypical crazy scientist.

After giving Aljoscha some cash for the tip, with a promise of more should the man prove to be valuable, the informant happily left before Paul approached the tall, loud man by the bar.

“I hear you are looking for the Scorpions,” he said in a hushed voice, making Flake spin around to stare at him with wild eyes. Holding his index finger in front of his lips, he gestured for Flake to quiet down. Ordering two shots of whiskey, he offered one to Flake, before toasting. 

Flake looked terribly bewildered at the entire situation, but followed Paul and gulped down his shot obediently, coughing roughly from the burn. Good. Maybe he would be that much easier to get tipsy and coax into talking. Signalling to the bartender for another shot and two beers, he pushed the shot towards Flake.

“You seem to need it,” he smiled, a smile that widened as Flake downed it without hesitation, coughing a bit more. 

“I don’t like whiskey,” Flake said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “But thanks.”

Paul raised a slightly confused eyebrow, but shrugged in response. Grabbing the two beers, he moved towards an empty booth, nodding for Flake to follow. Once seated, he pushed a beer towards the other man, and lifted his own for another toast.

“I hear you’re looking for the Scorpions,” Paul repeated, his voice low, but friendly. “Any particular reason why you need to get in touch with them?”

After a swallow from his beer, and a disgusted face after the fact, Flake heaved a giant sigh. Paul guessed he didn’t much like the beer either. “They killed my wife and daughter. I want them dead.”

Paul hid his surprise well. Trying to look as sympathetic as possible, he offered his condolences while contemplating his next move. It was clear to him that should Flake succeed in finding the Scorpions, he would probably get obliterated on the spot. However, a researcher of his caliber could be of use for the organization, and if the Scorpions had gone to the step of killing Flake’s family, he certainly had something they wanted.

Acquiring something at the expense of the Scorpions was always a good thing.

“I have some information you might find useful,” Paul offered. “But I cannot tell you here. If you are willing to come with me, I will try to answer any questions you have.”

Paul saw the thin man’s eyes narrow suspiciously, but also noticed the reddening creep of an alcohol flush across his face, and knew Flake was quickly getting drunk. “How do I know you’re not one of them? You could just kidnap me and no one would know.”

“If I was one of them, you would probably be dead in a bathroom stall by now,” Paul said, with a big, charming smile.

Instead of looking charmed or laughing at the dark humor, Flake’s eyes instantly filled with tears. Paul internally rolled his eyes as he reminded himself that, right, the man’s family was just killed. Probably not the best turn of phrase.

“Hey, I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me,” Paul apologized. “But asking questions like you’ve been doing is dangerous. I just want to get you to a safe place, that’s all. You seem like a nice guy, and I want to help.”

Flake hurriedly rubbed his face with a handkerchief he grabbed from his pocket, trying to collect himself. He stared at Paul for a long moment, and though Paul saw the slight wobbling start from his increasing drunkenness, he was glad to see a resolution in the man’s sad eyes. “Okay,” Flake sighed. “You are the only one so far that has offered any help in finding them, so you’re all I’ve got. I’ll come with you. Please don’t kill me.”

The slight chin tremble at the end of the man’s statement almost made Paul feel sorry for him. He really seemed to be an innocent bystander sadly caught up in the Scorpions’ destructive and heartless wake. Giving Flake a gentle pat on the back, Paul stood up, and soon after, the two men left the bar together.

Paul had taken Flake to a safe house where the researcher had almost deflated. The miserable man had told his sad story, put his weapon on the table, and cried bitter tears at the realization that he was not the cold-blooded hitman he had hoped to be. Paul sent him in the shower and prepared some food and coffee, and while he did, he got the call.

Flake Lorenz was a man of interest, and he was to be recruited, looked after, and given what he needed. “And since you brought him in, congratulations, it’s your assignment. Good luck. We’ll be in touch,” Paul’s leader informed him before hanging up.

Furious, Paul had smashed two coffee cups he’d been about to use on the floor. Paul Landers, the best driver in the organisation, babysitter for some nerd? Cleaning up the mess he made, he angrily hoped it wouldn’t take long before someone else could take over, so that he could go back to more important tasks in the organisation.

Yet one year or so later, a somewhat resigned Paul was still looking after Flake. “Manservant” was what Paul used to refer to himself as, to the amusement of the other group members and to Flake as well. Flake was not as amused the first times Paul - as soon as he got to quiet roads - speeded up and pretended to be a rally driver. He had clutched his seat and wondered if that was how he was going to die, while Paul’s mischievous smile had threatened to split his head in two. Flake kept gripping his seat when Paul did that, but after a while, he only pretended to be scared, to amuse Paul - in fact, he enjoyed a little excitement in his otherwise monotonous life.

Though he did not enjoy as much excitement as he got the day they first came for him. Flake had to admit, he had become complacent. They had just picked up some supplies needed for his lab work. As usual, Paul had complained about having to carry most of the boxes, and Flake had turned around to tell him to stop whining as the first shot hit the concrete wall right next to his head. Quite frankly he didn’t understand what was going on until Paul had dragged him to the car, shoved him into the back seat, told him to hold on tight and keep his head down.

As bullets slammed into the car, Flake had been quite happy that car explosions rarely happened the way they did in movies, and when the rear window was pulverised and the shards scattered over him, he was glad that Paul was behind the wheel as he quickly drove them away to safety.

\-- 

“Both Paul and I got an awakening that day. Paul hated having to look after me, it was pretty obvious, and quite frankly I didn’t really understand why I needed to have him around all the time. He was so annoying.”

Grabbing another handkerchief out of the pack, Flake dried fresh tears from his cheeks. Oliver nodded with a small smile. He had no problems imagining Paul being annoying.

Flake sniffled, and cleared his throat before continuing. “After that shooting, he told me the story about the call from his informant that first night, and how he was told to look after me. Paul saw the assignment as glorified babysitting, and he felt like his skills were trivialised. I’m not sure if he ever told you, but - Paul grew up as the middle child in a very wealthy family. His parents didn’t care about him; they just threw expensive things at him to shut him up. All he wanted was a little affection, a little recognition, to be important to someone…”

As Flake broke down in another bout of loud sobs, Oliver sent a worried look to Richard, who immediately put his laptop down. Squatting down in front of Flake, he put his hands on the thin man’s knees.

“Flake.” Richard’s voice was quiet and soothing. “Paul is important to someone. He is important to you, and to the rest of us. Right now he is in the best hands he could be. You know as well as I do that this hospital has excellent trauma surgeons. Till and Herr Schneider are looking into who could be behind this, and they have organised scouts outside to screen those who arrive to make sure we are all safe here, including Paul.” 

“I put him in danger,” Flake cried. “If I wasn’t for me, he wouldn’t have been shot…”

“You know that Paul likes danger. He fully knows the risk of what we do.” Richard looked up at Flake, who for a moment looked perplexed, then sighed.

“He does,” Flake admitted. “After he realized he was more of a bodyguard than a babysitter, he changed. We both did. When we were moved to a new group for safety reasons, we were a lot more alert. That’s the only reason why we survived the next attack a month later.”

“Another one, so soon?” Oliver looked concerned.

Flake shrugged. “No one knew it at the time, but there was a snitch in that new group. Since both of us were a bit on edge when we got there, we were reserved and didn’t say much when the guy asked lots of questions. We thought he was just awkwardly trying to be friendly, but once he got my identity confirmed, he went to the Scorpions and gave them information about my whereabouts. Then they came for me.”

Richard had moved up on the bench as well, his face hardening as Flake told them about the betrayal. “How did you manage to survive?”

“Part precaution, part luck. We had a little indoor plant that no one liked or watered, and when we came home one day, I saw a tiny bit of dirt spilled next to it, like it had been jostled and then wiped up in a hurry. Then we checked our actual failsafes by the doors-- just little things we set up to know whether someone had been inside-- and they were disturbed as well. As we snuck out of there, the door to the living room opened and someone shot at us. A bullet grazed my arm, but it was just a flesh wound. Paul took us away from there before anyone had the time to follow.”

Flake sighed wearily. “Luckily we’d only been there a month, so it wasn’t as difficult when we had to move again. That’s also the time when my interest switched drastically from pharmaceuticals to surveillance. I was obsessed with it, making sure that everywhere I went, I knew the complete layout, down to the individual tiles in the floor. I needed to know I was safe…”

His voice trailed off as his thoughts went back to that uncertain time.

\-- 

“Okay, I checked the cameras and reset the sensors by the door and windows,” Flake said, getting into the car and buckling his seatbelt fastidiously. “I also went back over footage from last night and didn’t see anything unusual.”

“Mhmm,” Paul replied, completely uninterested. Flake had become outrageously paranoid after the last attack, and it was wearing Paul down with his endless security checks and demands for constant vigilance. 

“You’ll need to do a drive around the perimeter when we get there, of course,” Flake continued, oblivious to Paul’s rising irritation. “Then again before we leave today, at least once more just to--”

“Yes I know,” Paul snapped. “You’ve told me this every single day for the past four months. I haven’t forgotten since yesterday; don’t worry.”

Flake frowned over at his companion, bothered at being cut off. “I’m sorry, is my concern for our safety bothering you?”

Paul sneered as he said, “Concern for safety and full-blown paranoia are two completely different things. It’s getting annoying.”

Flake scoffed and said derisively, “Annoying? You’re one to talk.”

“Oh, right, of course,” Paul said, a mocking tone in his voice. “I forgot, I’m the constant _tiny_ annoyance in your life.”

“You’re a _huge_ annoyance; nothing “tiny” about it.”

Paul seemed stunned for some reason, and didn’t reply right away. Flake mistook his silence as being hurt by his words, so he gruffly added, “Sometimes you’re not annoying, I guess.”

“You don’t think I’m tiny?” Paul asked quietly.

“What? We’re not talking about your damn dick size, Paul. I’m talking about your attitude.”

“First of all, my dick is not tiny; it’s actually way too long, thank you very much. I was talking about my height.”

“Who cares about your height? It’s your mouth that’s the problem,” Flake insisted.

Paul went silent again, and Flake again felt uncomfortable, worried that he’d upset the normally thick-skinned man. Maybe he was self-conscious about his dick size.

“You don’t think I’m too small?” Paul’s voice was quiet again, and Flake saw a rare look of vulnerability on Paul’s face as he drove. What was bothering him?

“Too small for what?” Flake asked in confusion.

“Nevermind,” Paul said after a moment, waving his hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. Just as long as you don’t think I’ve got a tiny dick.” Paul grinned again, and Flake sighed in relief, glad the odd moment was over.

Unfortunately, the oddities became more frequent after that argument. Paul seemed to morph into someone else entirely, switching from being irritated at Flake’s very existence to constantly cracking jokes and laughing with him. Or rather, _at_ him, as it seemed Paul’s new habit was constantly poking fun of Flake at every opportunity. 

Flake’s irritation with the man skyrocketed, and now instead of being annoyed with Paul’s grouchy attitude, he was annoyed with his cheerful one. There seemed to be no stable middle ground with him, Flake had miserably decided. So, he simply put up with it, preferring light-hearted jokes slightly more than grumpy sarcasm.

When the team got selected for a major assignment, the assassination of a wealthy and corrupt businessman, Flake had been relieved. Preparations and planning took a lot of time and energy, and with everyone focused on the job at hand, the joking subsided. Flake’s main nuisance was their leader Alexander insisting on dealing with surveillance and security systems himself. Whining about it to Paul hadn’t yielded much sympathy. Instead, Paul dryly remarked that if Flake was handling it, it would take them years to get ready for the job.

“This would never have happened if Alexander had let me handle surveillance and security,” Flake had said, bitterly, as he and Paul tried to make themselves comfortable in an old base that was more or less a cave. The assassination had gone according to plan, with one single exception: Alexander had missed a security camera wired to a separate system, and they had all been caught on tape without their knowledge.

Not long after, group members Winfried and Chris had been gunned down by bounty hunters, recruited by angry relatives who had offered hefty sums of money in return for the heads of the murderers. Paul and Flake again managed to get away, mainly because Paul was running low on knäckebrot and insisted on stopping at a store before meeting the others at a restaurant. The two of them arrived just as four armed men shot their colleagues dead in front of their eyes. Paul quietly turned the car and drove off.

And that was how Flake and Paul ended up in a cave for months, while Alexander was laying low somewhere else, trying to clean up his mess. Even the leader of their organisation, a “Herr Rammstein”, had gotten involved. Flake had heard that he was quite unhappy about several of his people suddenly having price tags on their heads.

\-- 

“Do you think those bounty hunters could still be after you?” Richard wondered. He had picked up his laptop, and was punching in more information while listening to Flake’s story.

“We were told that Alexander and Herr Rammstein had taken care of everything. Footage had been destroyed, some had been threatened, some had been bribed. Those who weren’t willing to negotiate, had been dealt with. We were, of course, assigned to a new group since Winfried and Chris were dead, and Alexander was demoted. I was sceptical, but Herr Rammstein told me it was a new team, not just us joining someone who’d been together for a long time. He assured me that he had personally researched everyone in the group. I’ll admit Till worried me since he recently lost his team, but--” Flake’s thoughts went to Till’s conversation with Müllchen that he accidentally overheard, “--he seems like a good man.”

Richard nodded. “He does,” he said, thinking about how Till had handled his own little moment of weakness in the bathroom.

Flake sighed. “When we finally left the cave, I trusted that everything in Herr Rammstein’s power had been done, but you never know. That’s why I am so meticulous about charting the area around our base, but I must have missed something, or else they wouldn’t know our habits. If only I had been more careful, this wouldn’t have happened. I didn’t do a good enough job, and now I may end up losing Paul because of it...”

Oliver felt Flake’s body starting to shake again. “This is not your fault, Flake. And Paul is a fighter; you said he managed to drive to the hospital after being shot. That tells me he wants to live,” Oliver said comfortingly. “How about you tell us how you guys went from finding each other annoying to becoming a couple?”

For the first time since Oliver and Richard had arrived at the hospital, a tiny smile flashed across Flake’s face.

\-- 

Seeing his colleagues getting shot had upset Flake more than he wanted to admit. Isolated from the rest of the world in the cave, he had plenty of time to think about how he ended up in such a mess. If he had accepted the Scorpions’ offer in the first place, he would still have had a home and a family. Now, he had nothing. His wish for revenge had led him to the Rammstein group; and someone else’s wish for revenge had made him a hunted man himself, forcing him to hide in a cave with one of the most annoying men in the world.

Paul, on the other hand, was happy as a clam, and seemingly oblivious to Flake's rapidly mounting intolerance of his annoying antics, or what Flake had only seen as annoying. Things like constantly asking him pointless questions like whether Flake were hungry, if he wanted coffee, whether he wanted to play a game or tell stories together. Being in constant contact with Paul in a very cramped, enclosed area had apparently been a recipe for Flake to lose his cool by the end of their first week together.

"That's _it!_ " Flake had exclaimed after Paul banked a pebble off the wall and onto Flake's notebook, startling him as he tried to write old maps from memory. Paul had actually been aiming for a makeshift goal off down the tunnel, but he had a strong suspicion Flake didn't care.

"What on earth possessed you and made it your life goal to irritate the shit out of me?" Flake demanded, snapping his notebook close and glaring over.

"I was just--"

"You're always _just_ doing something, Paul, all the time. It never stops with you! I realize it's close quarters, but for god’s sake; why can’t you let me breathe? Why the hell are you so damn clingy and obnoxious, constantly? Asking me a thousand questions a day, pestering the everloving shit out of me. Why?”

Flake paused, slightly out of breath from his sudden rant.

Paul quietly sat like a scolded puppy, his eyes wide and sad as he fiddled with his handful of pebbles.  
“Because I like you,” he finally admitted, suddenly busying himself tracing an invisible line along the cave wall with one of the rocks to avoid Flake’s angry stare. “I like being around you and doing things with you, and I ask questions to get to know you…”

Flake blinked, stunned at the response. He… liked him? “What? What do you mean, you “like” me?”

Paul raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never heard the term “liking” someone before? It means you enjoy being around them and want to continue to do so. Pretty basic word.”

“Yes I know what “like” means,” Flake snapped back.

“Then why are you asking?” Paul asked, crossing his arms.

“Because it doesn’t make sense.”

“I. Like. You,” Paul enunciated each word dramatically and emphatically. “It’s very simple. I just, well, I have a hard time showing it, apparently.”

Flake blinked again, trying to process everything. “You like me.”

Paul buried his head in his hands, as it was his turn to feel frustrated now. “ _Yes._ Listen. Since we’re stuck in a cave together for god knows how long, we might as well be honest with each other. I like you, ok? I’ve liked you for a while. And it’s difficult for me to be so close to you all the time and not knowing if there is any chance at all that you like me, too, you know? So I might as well just say it, and if you don’t like me, I promise I will stay away - at least as far away as it’s possible in this cave.” 

Flake was having a very hard time forming words after Paul’s grand admission. Of course he liked Paul, at least in the sense that he didn’t _dislike_ him. Was that not obvious? No, that couldn’t be it. He’d been pleasant with Paul; they’d been partners, after all. 

Paul’s face, that had previously been both anxious as well as somewhat hopeful, fell as he waited for Flake’s response. When none came, he sighed and gathered up the pebbles he’d been playing with. “I understand. I’ll move all my stuff on that side and stop bothering you. Sorry if this made everything awkward.”

As Paul began dragging his sleeping bag, blanket, and bag of essentials across the cave to the other side, Flake was hit with realization.

Oh. He _liked_ him.

Flake blushed furiously as understanding struck him. Paul had a crush on him. He had been like a school child teasing the person he desired, but Flake had only seen it all as annoyances. It made so much more sense, now. Paul had cared about him-- asking if he were hungry, offering to get things for him, trying to strike up conversations. What Paul meant as kind and perhaps flirtatious gestures, Flake had taken as simple irritations.

He suddenly felt awful, and looked over to see a terribly saddened Paul trying to smooth out his sleeping bag over an especially bumpy part of the floor. The cave was quiet now, and Flake noticed he actually hated the silence. He had gotten so used to Paul’s incessant chatter that it felt empty and weird without it. Additionally, with him all the way across the cave, Flake also realized he felt lonely. Paul had been attention-seeking, but not in an egotistical way as Flake supposed. He’d just wanted Flake to notice him, notice his little offerings and endearing gestures. Now that Flake was thinking about it and understood Paul’s intentions, he was forced to ask himself the reverse question: did he feel even remotely similar? 

He had no idea.

That said, he _did_ know he hated Paul being so far away. It felt weird and wrong, and even though he couldn’t give Paul an answer right now, he wanted him back by his side at the very least.

“Paul,” he called, and Paul instantly perked up. “Move back over here. You don’t need to be so far.”

Slightly suspicious, Paul rolled his bed back up and dragged his things across the cave again. “This isn’t awkward?” he asked hesitantly.

“No,” Flake said, and before Paul could say anything further, he clarified, “I don’t know exactly what I feel yet. That will come in time, I’m sure. We’ve got plenty of that, anyway, being stuck indefinitely down here. I just know I don’t like you being so far away and so quiet. Is that okay for now?”

Paul searched Flake’s face, perhaps to see if he were being serious. He then nodded slowly. “Sure. As long as I’m not annoying you, like you said.”

Flake rolled his eyes. “I don’t think you could stop being annoying even if you tried. But, that’s ok. I think I prefer annoying over silence.”

As Paul laid out the sleeping bag again, Flake felt an urge to show him he meant well, despite asking for time to figure out his own feelings. He reached over when Paul sat down, and gave him a quick, awkward hug before clearing his throat and trying to let go.

Paul had other ideas, and grabbed Flake in a much tighter, much bigger hug that squeezed the air from Flake’s lungs. He was incredibly relieved that Flake wasn’t upset about his confession, and the hug had broken any lingering awkwardness Paul had felt. 

After a few moments, Flake wheezed, “I’m glad you’re happy,” and weakly patted Paul’s back, hoping the man would let go.

He didn’t, and Flake had to tap him insistently. “I really can’t breathe.”

“Oh, sorry.” Paul released him in a hurry. “It’s been so long since I’ve had human contact, much less a hug.” He smiled up at Flake, who was flustered and brushing himself off.

“Glad to help,” Flake said, busying himself with his notebook again. The hug was nice, he thought to himself. Perhaps he really did need to investigate his feelings about Paul...

\-- 

“And that was that,” Flake said, purposefully skipping the next few months when they’d gotten to know one another more intimately.

Oliver made an “aww” noise, while Richard had a cheeky grin on his face. Before he could ask for the juicier details, the door next to the bench opened, and a doctor entered, turning to them. Flake shot up out of his seat and was about to bombard the man with his concerns, but the doctor held up a hand.

“He’s stable,” the doctor said, and Flake sighed in relief. “He’s resting now. There should be no lasting or significant damage to any of his organs; it was surprisingly just a direct shot through. We’ve cleaned and sutured the wounds, and he just woke up.”

“Can I see him?” Flake asked desperately.

“Yes. He’s down the hall in room 425.”

With a brusque, “thanks,” Flake pushed past the doctor and hurried to the room. 

Richard shook the doctor’s hand gratefully. “Sorry about that. He’s just really concerned.”

The doctor waved a hand and said, “Don’t worry. It happens all the time.”

Oliver and Richard went down the hall to Paul’s room. Flake was already sitting by the bed, holding Paul’s hand and gently stroking his hair. Paul was hooked up to several monitors and looked a little bleaker than normal, but he smiled at them as they entered.

“The doctor says I’ll be okay,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “Flake saved my life.”

Flake huffed. “You saved your own life by driving here. I just kept you from losing all your blood.”

“Last I checked, you need blood to live,” Paul chuckled, looking lovingly at Flake.

“You really had us worried. What were two you doing in Eberswalde anyway?” Oliver asked.

“OH!” Paul exclaimed. “The Eberswalder Spritzkuchen! The extra ones we bought should still be in the car. Flake, could you get them for me? I’m really hungry!”

“You just got shot, and you’re thinking about pastries?” Richard said incredulously.

“As long as the doctor okay’s the food,” Flake said, soothing Paul before he could get indignant. “You don’t feel sick or anything? Stomach feels fine?”

Paul nodded vigorously, and Flake suspected some of the painkillers he was on were helping his appetite. 

“I’ll go grab it, then.” Flake patted Paul’s head and was just about to leave the room when Richard’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out and answered, then nodded as a grave look spread across his face.

“All right. Thanks. Yeah, Paul is doing fine-- awake and asking for food. Right. Keep us updated.”  
Richard ended the call and turned to his gang, his face grim.

“Till found out who was behind the shooting.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are always happy to hear any feedback. Thank you for reading!


	6. Gefährlich ist, wer Schmerzen kennt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wahnsinn may or may not be particularly satisfied with this chapter.

The house was strangely empty. Oliver locked the door behind him, kicked off his sneakers, and brought the paper bag with him into the living room. It had been a long day at the hospital. While Richard had gone to the office to do some research, Oliver had been sent home to rest and take a nap before going back to the hospital. Despite Flake’s worries, the doctors had insisted on at the very least keeping Paul overnight, and Oliver had volunteered to stay with him during the night so that Flake could get some sleep.

While they normally ate in the kitchen, the sofa was calling for Oliver now that had the house to himself. Making himself comfortable by laying his long body down and stretching out fully, he propped some pillows behind his neck, and started unpacking the döner kebab he had bought on the way home. It had been a long time since he ate, and it smelled great.

Oliver paused in the middle of unwrapping his food, thinking he heard something across the room. He listened, and fingered the back end of the gun he had inside his waistband just in case.

The house remained quiet. Oliver shrugged to himself and went back to the food. It was a bit of an older house. Random noises were to be expected. With a satisfied sigh, he finished unpacking his dinner and was just about to take a particularly large bite.

A sudden weight hit his chest, and tiny needle pricks poked him through his shirt. Oliver yelped and scattered half of his food onto the floor as he scrambled to sit upright, grabbing at whatever had pelted against his chest. 

Soft fur met his terrified grip and he immediately eased his hold. Little Müllchen had sunk his claws firmly in Oliver’s chest, and was now staring wide-eyed up at an equally wide-eyed man. The two stared at one another for a very long time before Müllchen mewed loudly, protesting Oliver’s hand still holding him in place.

“Oh, sorry,” he apologized to the kitten, releasing it.

Müllchen was a nearly perfect circle of puffed up fur, apparently having been just as startled by Oliver’s reaction as Oliver was to his sudden appearance. Even his tail was big and fluffed up.

“I said sorry,” he cooed at the kitten, bringing his hand down now to pet rather than squeeze him. Müllchen seemed suspicious, but quickly smoothed his little hackles down once he realized the pets were nice. He immediately began purring loudly and scrunching his claws happily against the tall man’s chest. Oliver flinched as Müllchen’s claws were particularly pointy and sharp, but savored the happiness of seeing a contented animal enjoying his attention. 

He had asked his parents if he could have a pet many times during his childhood and youth, but he never got one. “You have to focus on the training,” they always replied. “Nothing should take away your time and concentration from that.”

Oliver had always just nodded and said that he understood. After all, he was the big hope of the family. His father had been a promising shooter as a teenager, but an injury stopped his career. That was why he had pushed Oliver so hard, so his son could have what he had missed out on. If you made it as an athlete in East Germany, you were set for life, and as a single child, Oliver had often felt the pressure of having to live up to his father’s expectations.

He couldn’t even remember how young he had been the first time he got a gun put into his hand. Though he did remember his father’s so-called games, where young Oliver had to point the weapon at the wall and stand as still as he could for long periods of time. When he got older, he realised how most of the playing he did as a child had been training in disguise. Oliver had enjoyed most of it, except for getting up early in the morning to run before school. He did it anyway. The one time he had tried to refuse, his father taught him what happened if he didn’t comply.

Then again, Oliver loved shooting. His father often brought him to the local range where he had stared big-eyed at the people shooting all sorts of weapons. One of his favourite things was watching the small metal targets spin every time his father hit a mark. Often, he had begged his dad to let him try, and on his seventh birthday, he had been allowed to shoot for the very first time. His father had drilled him in weapon safety and correct technique, and Oliver had been extremely excited when he finally got the .22 pistol in his hands.

Due to the excitement, his first shot had totally missed the target. Oliver remembered the immediate surge of disappointment he had felt. “You are a little too eager,” his father had laughed, patting him on the back. “Take your time, and remember the things I have told you.”

Lifting the weapon again, the world around Oliver had disappeared. It was just him and the target. He had aimed, breathed, and pulled the trigger. The target spun. Then he did the same thing again and again, until the magazine was empty.

When he lowered the gun, Oliver had realised that it was strangely quiet around him. He noticed that people were staring at him, and it frightened him, so he had walked over to his father for comfort.

“Why are they looking at me like that?” he had asked with tears in his eyes, looking up at his dad only to see that he, too, was teary-eyed.

His father had taken the weapon from him and placed it on the bench next to him before scooping Oliver up into his arms. “Because you, my son, were fantastic, and I’m so proud of you,” he had whispered.

\-- 

Oliver smiled happily at the fond memory, and suddenly realized he had an equally happy warm pile of fluff curled up under his chin. He’d been so invested in his memories that he hadn’t noticed the kitten creeping slowly up his chest to come to a rest against his neck, tucked contentedly under his jaw. Müllchen was still purring, but the purrs became fainter as the kitten slowly drifted off to sleep. 

A loud growl from Oliver’s stomach startled him, but thankfully didn’t wake the cat. He eyeballed the half of his food that had fallen onto the coffee table rather than the floor. If he reached carefully, he _might_ just be able to get it without jostling the kitten too much.

Stretching out his arm slowly, he carefully inched it out and toward the still-delicious-smelling döner kebab. He prayed Till wouldn’t come home right then, as he felt utterly ridiculous trying to remain horizontal with a kitten sleeping on his face while flailing out an arm and balancing himself to get his dinner. Almost there… Just a little bit further, and--

A door closing startled him yet again and made his arm flinch just enough to knock the rest of his food right off the table, joining the remains of the scattered meat and fillings across the floor. Oliver sighed quietly; though disappointed, he was at least glad the noise hadn’t bothered Müllchen.

“It seems it was a good thing I got some extra.”

Till’s amused voice appeared above him, and Oliver glanced up. Till was smiling down at him, and held out two bags of steaming food. “We both got döner kebab too, ah? You have good taste, Oliver. No, don’t get up; you seem preoccupied. I’ll just set the table a little closer and put your food here. How’s that?”

Oliver smiled gratefully, though he was slightly embarrassed about the mess. “Thank you, Herr Lindemann. I really appreciate it. The kitten scared me and I dropped all my food.”

Till waved the apology away. “Don’t mention it. And I’d really rather you not call me Herr Lindemann.” He took his own bag of food and went to the chair across from the couch on the other side of the coffee table. Till began eating, watching in continued amusement as Oliver tried to carefully eat without waking the kitten up. He tore tiny pieces of meat off and slowly brought them to his mouth, gently popping them in one at a time.

“You can wake him up, you know,” Till said. “He won’t be mad about it, and you’ll have a much easier time eating. I take it you’ve never had a cat before.”

“No I haven’t,” Oliver admitted as he carefully scooted the kitten down onto his leg and sat upright. Müllchen yawned and stretched his feet, then turned in a tiny circle and curled up to continue sleeping in a much more convenient spot in Oliver’s lap.

“They’re fun little things,” Till mused, “if a bit of a pain sometimes. So long as Flake and Paul keep it from tearing things up, he’s a decent addition to the gang.”

Oliver smiled at the fondness in Till’s normally gruff voice. “I think so too,” he agreed, alternating between petting the kitten and taking giant bites of his dinner.

The two men fell silent as they ate. It didn’t take long before the döner kebabs were gone. With a satisfied sigh, Till patted his stomach before producing another paper bag. “Dessert?” he asked Oliver, offering him a fresh pastry. “I got raspberry filling; I hope that’s okay.”

Delighted, Oliver pulled a Pfannkuchen out of the bag, immediately taking a bite of the jelly-filled pastry. “These things are delicious,” he smiled. “I was never allowed to eat unhealthy food when I was young.”

“You’re still young,” Till chuckled. “But at least you can choose your own food now. I assume your diet must have been pretty strict, given that you were training for the Olympics?”

Oliver raised an eyebrow. It hadn’t really occurred to him that Till must have done research on him before he joined the group. “Yeah,” he said bitterly, “The Olympics...”

\-- 

Oliver had been one of the youngest shooters on the shortlist for the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona. The rigorous training he had done, combined with a pure talent, had given him quite some attention throughout the years. When he was ten, Oliver was invited to attend a sports school after winning several local competitions, and being accepted to one of the 19 special sports schools was a big deal. Only 2000 children were invited each year.

His father had been absolutely delighted. As Oliver was already tall for his age, the coaches initially wanted him to switch to a sport where his height could be more of an advantage, but his father demanded that he stay a shooter. Due to his reputation, the school officials begrudgingly accepted his wish, but demanded that Oliver was to be tested with a rifle in addition to the pistol to see which weapon he should focus on. Oliver’s performance baffled them so much that they wanted to train him in both. While this added quite a bit to his weekly workload, his father signed the papers without hesitation. Oliver was just happy to be allowed to keep shooting.

Still, school life had been hard for him. Oliver liked peace and quiet and was used to having his own room. Suddenly, he had to live in a dormitory, and he had to share a room with two other boys. He was teased a lot for his height, struggled with the schoolwork, and was homesick a lot. The teachers and coaches were demanding, and the young students were punished harshly if they didn’t perform or follow the strict rules. Quite frequently, Oliver would hear crying as he walked the corridors of the dorm. Sometimes, he would be the one crying.

Though when he tried talking to his parents about it one weekend, his father had sent him back to school with more bruises than he had when he came. “Special sports school is an honour, not just to you, but to our entire family. You should be grateful for the opportunity to go there. And if coming home during weekends is a problem for you, then perhaps you shouldn’t,” his father had told him when he left.

So Oliver made sure it wasn’t a problem. Already good at shutting out the world on the range, he started doing the same outside of it as well. All his struggles, his loneliness, and his pain was put away and dealt with through his shooting. He imagined his issues as the targets, and he shot them down, one by one. Then he could go home each weekend and tell his parents that everything was okay.

Oliver’s biggest problem had been that he hated attention. He didn’t like being watched or noticed, which was impossible to avoid, especially during competitions. During training, he was unbeatable, but once the audience was in place, he wasn’t as consistent anymore. That’s when he was given vitamin pills to take before competitions. The coach told him that they would help.

Oliver hated them. The pills made him feel tired and cold, and he often had nightmares after competitions. Secretly, he threw them away. Instead, he used his extreme compartmentalisation to work on ignoring the audience as well, and he improved, which pleased his coach. Oliver had even been considered for the 1988 Olympics in Seoul, but the committee eventually chose older, more experienced athletes. Though he was given clear signals that he would be in Barcelona should he manage to keep his high level of performance.

Then the wall came down.

The last year of school was a mess. With Germany united, the entire system of the specialised sports schools came under scrutiny. “Sausage machines,” the westerners called them. Methods were questioned and found unacceptable. Teachers and coaches, including his own, were charged due to what turned out to be state-endorsed doping. And because of this, Oliver was suspected to use performance enhancing substances.

\-- 

“Most of us had been given drugs without our knowledge. We were told it was vitamins. I was lucky. The side effects made me throw away the beta blockers I got, and since I was in shooting, I avoided the steroids and the testosterone. Many of those who got that were destroyed for life,” Oliver said quietly.

Till didn’t say anything, but his jaw was clenched, and there was a darkness in his eyes.

“My performance gave me a full scholarship to a prestigious sports university in the west. I didn’t know anything else, so I accepted. Though as soon as the other students saw me shoot, no one wanted anything to do with me. They were convinced that I was just another Ossie on drugs. My tests were clean, but some of my competitors started rumours, and I was put under investigation. This happened just before the athletes for Barcelona were selected.” Oliver swallowed hard and looked down, busying himself petting Müllchen.

“I’m so sorry, Oliver,” Till said.

Oliver could feel his leader’s eyes on him, and the familiar discomfort came creeping into his body. “It’s okay,” he quickly replied, lifting his head to look straight at Till, shrugging the unease away. “After all, that is why I started studying eastern meditation techniques. I was required to choose some subjects at university to fill the time while I was on probation from training with the other shooters. The meditation improved my focus, and the professor was well versed in pressure points. He knew my situation and still agreed to teach me. I am grateful, as that knowledge has proved quite useful.”

Till raised his eyebrows at the quick shift in Oliver’s demeanour. 

“Compartmentalisation,” Oliver said with a short chuckle. “Nowadays it just happens automatically for me, but I know it often freaks people out. I have been called a psycho more times than I can count.”

Oliver could see that Till was thinking about something, as the big man fell quiet for a few seconds. “Have you killed someone before?”

Oliver paused, a bit surprised at the blunt question, before replying in an equally straightforward way, “Yes.”

Till waited for Oliver to continue. When he didn’t, Till simply nodded in acknowledgement. “That’s good. It’ll make this assignment a lot easier, I think.”

He pulled out a notebook and flipped a few pages, settling on the bullet points he’d written down from his previous conversation with Herr Schneider. “As you know, the assassin who tried to kill Flake was a hitman from the Scorpions. We tracked him down and got everything we could on him. As I’m sure you also know, we can’t let him have another shot – literally – so we need him gone.”

“That’s where I come in, I guess,” Oliver said knowingly.

“Exactly. Richard tracked down his whereabouts, and with a little bit of investigating, we got down his morning routine and the exact spot that’s best to pick him off. He goes for a walk around the park at 6am, and the ideal time is right as he’s leaving his house. No one bothers to get up that early so we have the walkway clear. Just a quick shot and we’re out.”

“How far away will I have to set up?” Oliver asked.

“Herr Schneider did the logistics there after we figured out where he’d be. We’ll be on a rooftop 500 meters away. It’s as close as we can get without risking being seen. Think you can get a clean shot from that far?”

Oliver thought for a moment. It would be challenging, and he would need to compensate for extra wind from that high up as well as any glares from the early rising sun. But, he knew he could do it. “Yes sir,” he said confidently. “I can get it done from that far.”

Till opened his mouth to complain about Oliver calling him 'sir' again, but stopped himself. Considering the man's background, he realised that the formal way of talking to leaders probably was instilled in him from his childhood, and that it was just a force of habit. Standing up, Till walked over to the couch, then patted Oliver on the back. “Good. Make sure to get some sleep. Richard will cover your night shift, since we need you early in the morning to prepare everything and set up well beforehand, just in case. People have a tendency to fuck up even the best laid plans.”

“I’ll be ready,” Oliver assured. 

“Excellent. I’ve got a few more errands to run for Herr Schneider since we’re currently down a gang member-- well, two actually. Flake is as good as down while Paul’s in the hospital. Anyhow, rest up, and I’ll see you at 4am, then.”

“Yes sir, and thank you again for the food,” Oliver called as Till left the house.

Müllchen was still happily asleep perched on his lap, and he looked down fondly at the tiny kitten. “Sorry, little one,” he apologized as he gently scooped up the cat, “but you have to move so I can go to bed-- my actual bed this time.”

Müllchen yawned but didn’t protest as Oliver set him back on the couch to continue his nap.

\---

3:30am came far too early. Oliver was luckily not a deep sleeper though, and he was fully awake at the very first chirp of his alarm. For some reason, Richard seemed to think otherwise, and regularly had quiet phone conversations and “personal” time when he thought Oliver was sound asleep. Oliver had simply done his meditation exercises and compartmentalized as he always did, doing his best to give his roommate privacy despite Richard’s lack of discretion sometimes. 

As Oliver sat up, he was again startled by a small weight on his chest. He recognized it more quickly this time, and smiled as Müllchen woke up. The kitten protested with an irritated little meow when Oliver plopped him onto the bed so he could get up and get ready. He must have forgotten to close the door all the way, he thought as he changed clothes and double checked his rifle case. Müllchen bounced around him, batting at his pant leg and hiding behind the case, leaping out to try and pounce on his hand when he closed the latches. 

“No time for playing today, Müllchen,” he said apologetically as he walked to the door. “Come on; let’s put you back in Flake and Paul’s room so you don’t mess anything up while I’m gone.” He set down the case to pick up the kitten, who protested even more loudly. Oliver grinned at the growling little ball of fur. He gently set him down inside Flake and Paul’s room, then quickly closed the door before he could be followed out. 

The angry growls turned into high pitched, almost shrieking mews that made Oliver grin even wider. Poor thing. He’d have to be sure to give it lots of attention when he got back home.

After a quick visit to the bathroom, he jogged down the stairs with his case just as the front door opened.

“Morning,” Till said, not particularly cheerfully.

“Morning,” Oliver returned, trying to tone down his own cheerfulness and excitement. Till didn’t appear to be desirous of it. “I’m all set.”

“Let’s get going, then.”

The two drove out West to another section of town about a half hour’s distance from their base. The neighborhood they drove through was quite nice, Oliver thought to himself. Normally he’d have mentioned as much to whomever he was driving with, but judging by the dark circles under Till’s grim eyes, he suspected he hadn’t slept and wasn’t especially in the mood for idle chatter. Instead, Oliver closed his eyes and focused on his breathing.

“We’re setting up on the roof over there,” Till said as they rounded a corner, pointing at an older-looking apartment building. “We’ll use the fire escape and get on the south side of the roof. Once he’s dead, give it a few seconds to make sure no one comes running around near our side of the block, then we’ll pack up and head back out. Your case is discrete enough to pass for a tool case if we need a story: malfunctioning wiring on the roof or something. This building is ideal too because it’s not the _best_ location for a sniper. It’s further away, and not the highest vantage point, so they’ll likely look in the opposite direction over at that radio station to the north because of how tall the tower is. Everything is clear around it. Good so far?”

Oliver nodded in acknowledgement. He was impressed at how thorough the gang was in their preparations. “Yes sir. How does he need to be shot?”

Till raised an eyebrow as he stopped the car next to the park. “You’re giving me options?” he asked with a hint of amusement. “Preferably shot dead, but if you want to get fancy, through the head is ideal.”

Oliver just shrugged and said, “I just figured I’d ask. I didn’t know if there was a certain method to follow or anything.”

“Nope. Just dead, preferably in one clean shot. Though with the caliber of this--” he rapped a knuckle against the gun case, “--that’s not hard to do.”

“Not at all.” Oliver smiled as Till seemed to have lightened a bit after his question.

“Well, let’s get climbing, then.”

\---

The rooftop was quiet. Oliver had quickly set up his Blaser, and sat cross-legged in front of it, his calves showing due to the too-short coverall Till had made him wear.

“Just in case,” Till had said, holding the ugly things out for Oliver to put on. “Can’t be too careful.”

Oliver was not sure that anyone would actually believe that coverall was his, but he complied. At least it was wide enough for him to be able to move freely.

He enjoyed the silence and the fresh air. Oliver liked being outside, and waiting had never bothered him. There had always been waiting time on the range. Oliver breathed slowly, in and out, and he felt calm and centered.

Till, on the other hand, looked jittery and uncomfortable. Oliver watched him drink cup after cup of coffee from a gigantic travel mug, wondering how he could possibly handle that much caffeine all at once. He assumed that’s what the jitters were from, but didn’t say anything about it.

It was very nearly 6am now, and Oliver had narrowed in his focus. He’d set up the rifle on the raised edge of the roof, and now laid down behind it, stretching his legs out and propping himself up on his elbows as he readied himself. He yet again checked the scope and confirmed it was trained on the target’s door, ready for him to leave and begin his walk.

Till shifted onto his belly as well, making their silhouettes in the rising morning sun barely visible. He raised a pair of binoculars up to look at the door, then scanned the area nearby as well, just in case. “Still clear,” he asserted. “Now we just need this Curt guy to--”

“There he is,” Oliver quietly interrupted, following the man through the scope. “Walking down toward the park.”

Till snapped his binoculars back to the house and quickly found their target. “Fuck,” he said in irritation. “A dog.”

“Why is that bad?” Oliver asked. “He can’t attack us.”

“He can bark, attract attention, deliver messages, go find someone if he’s trained to get help in case his master is hurt,” Till ticked things off on his fingers. “Too many possible loose ends.”

“Well let’s hope he doesn’t,” Oliver said, “because Curt’s almost in position.”

“Fuck,” Till said again. “All right, well, just take the shot when you’ve got it. We’ll figure something out. He’s the priority; not the dog.”

Oliver didn’t respond. He was mentally calculating distance, wind, the man’s movements as he walked, and compensation needed for his shot to be absolutely perfect. The man drew closer and closer to the perfect spot, and Oliver took a deep breath in preparation. 

He slid his finger onto the trigger, exhaled partly, held his breath, and pulled in between two heartbeats.

The rifle bucked back into his shoulder, the noise of the shot slightly muffled from the silencer they’d screwed onto the barrel. Oliver didn’t move from his position, watching carefully through the scope to be sure he’d hit his mark.

Their target lay in a crumpled, motionless heap, blood pooling around him. He was definitely dead. Scattered remnants of the man’s skull around him confirmed as much.

“Excellent, excellent work,” Till breathed, patting Oliver enthusiastically on the back. “Perfect shot.”

Oliver seemed totally unaffected by what he had just done. “Thank you, sir,” he replied.

“That was just incredible, beautiful work. I wasn't expecting his head to shatter like that. That was a good choice to use the hollow-points; I’ll have to thank Herr Schneider for the recommendation. Damn impressive, I--”

Till was interrupted in his rant by loud howling. Looking through the sight of his rifle, Oliver could see the large Doberman lying next to his now dead owner, almost on top of him as he cried out. 

“God dammit,” Till said, wiping his face. “That’s what I was afraid of. You need to kill the dog too. Can’t let him wake everyone up.”

Oliver hesitated as he reloaded. The poor animal’s howling tore at his heart strings. He had no quarrel with animals; they never accused him of anything or went behind his back. They just existed and occasionally looked cute. 

“Oliver,” Till’s voice raised slightly and took on an edge. “Shut the dog up, _now._ ”

“Yes sir,” Oliver whispered as he put his eye back to the scope and sighted in the animal in the crosshairs. He shot quickly, dropping the dog onto his dead master.

“Thank you. Now let’s go. If people didn’t hear the shot, they certainly heard the mutt yowling. Come on, pack up.”

Oliver obeyed quietly, though his gut clenched in disgust as he quickly disassembled his rifle and put it away while Till picked up the spent casings. Then he put the thought of the dog away as well.

They saw no one all the way back to the car, and the ride home was a one-sided, excited rant from Till about how well the mission had gone, and then an even more enthusiastic call to Herr Schneider. From Till’s expression, their boss was equally as pleased at the outcome. Oliver barely noticed.

\-- 

They stopped off to get breakfast on their way to the hospital, as Till had insisted on giving the news of their success to the rest of the gang in person, as well as bringing them some much-needed food. The hospital food was, according to Flake, “very nearly a war-crime.” 

The others were both relieved and delighted at the news, with Flake especially breathing much easier after hearing their assailant was dead. Paul’s face had soured at the news of the dog they’d been forced to kill, but brightened right back up when he saw Till had brought them sandwiches. 

As Paul dug into his immediately, Richard gave Oliver and Till a long once-over, pausing to smile at the pants that rode halfway up Oliver’s legs before saying, “Nice outfits. I guess Till didn’t have time to find any work clothes in extra-extra-tall, eh Olli?”

Oliver tried to force a smile as the rest of the room guffawed.

After a final round of congratulations, Till said he needed to sleep, and Oliver deserved a brief rest before relieving Richard from his guard post, so the two drove back to their base.

Once at the house, Oliver went to let Müllchen out from Flake and Paul’s room. The kitten was lying on Flake’s bed, and when Oliver opened the door, it barely bothered lifting its head to glare at him. “I had to take care of some business,” Oliver said to the cat, “I’m sorry I had to put you in here, but you were distracting me.”

Müllchen lifted his head again, and decided he had pouted long enough. After a good stretch, he jumped down on the floor, ran over to Oliver, and looked up at him before launching himself at the leg of the coverall. Oliver gritted his teeth as the pointy claws dug into his calf, but watched in amusement as the kitten climbed up a little further before he lifted it up into his arms.

Carrying Müllchen down to the living room, Oliver found that Till had plated their sandwiches and made fresh coffee.

“Don’t you need to sleep at some point?” Oliver asked incredulously as he sat back down onto the couch, putting Müllchen in his lap.

“Doesn’t matter,” Till assured, sipping from the steaming mug. “I’ve worked hard to teach myself to sleep no matter what I’ve eaten, drank, or done. As soon as I decide I need to sleep, I just do it. Like flipping a switch. Granted, the quality of the sleep varies based on what I’ve eaten, drank or done, but it’s still sleep.”

“That’s amazing,” Oliver said, and meant it. “I have to at least do some kind of meditation beforehand to relax when I need to sleep.”

“It has its perks,” Till agreed. 

The two began eating their breakfast in silence, until Müllchen decided he’d had enough of sitting in Oliver’s lap. He turned and began climbing his way up his chest, around to his shoulder where he curled up and snuggled into Oliver’s neck.

Oliver froze, mid-bite, afraid that if he moved he’d accidentally shake off the kitten from its new perch. 

Till chuckled past a mouthful of his food, then said, “You can still eat, you know. He won’t fall.”

Oliver didn’t seem convinced. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. If he gets jostled, he’ll just dig his claws in and hang on. Have you not seen him ride around on Paul’s shoulder before?”

“Well, yes, but I thought he was just really careful about it.”

“Does Paul seem especially “careful,” to you?”

Oliver had to admit that, no, he did not. He resumed eating, though still a bit stiffly. After a few minutes, Müllchen’s purring eased his concerns and he loosened up, finishing his sandwich smoothly. He reached down, still a bit carefully, and grabbed the coffee Till had made for him. Staring down into it, he was a little impressed that Till seemed to remember he preferred it straight black.

The dark, swirling coffee along with the soft ball of purrs that was nestled against his neck made warmth blossom in his mind. Though the work was sometimes distasteful, he still had a gang that cared about him, paid attention to his needs and preferences, and kept him safe and satisfied. That was more than he could have said for most others that had been in his life.

“His name was Hans-Jürgen,” Oliver said quietly. “Before Atlanta, he was afraid he wouldn’t make the team since I was qualified for several events. He planted drugs in my locker, and called in an anonymous tip to WADA, the World Anti-Doping Agency. I got a two-year suspension and was thrown off the team. My parents were so ashamed that they told me I was no longer their son, and that I was not welcome there anymore.”

Till looked at Oliver, but didn’t say anything, though his eyes shone with understanding and sympathy.

“Since we had trained together, I knew all his routines. He often liked to do some late night cardio training alone, and he would always sing Modern Talking songs loudly in the shower, so he didn’t hear me coming in. I hit his SI-16, a pressure point at the base of the neck, and looked him in the eyes as his heart stopped beating. Then I made it look like he slipped and hit the shower knobs. Staring at his naked, dead body, I gave Herr Schneider a call to accept his offer.”

At that, Till nodded in recognition. “I’m glad you did,” he said softly. “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me this.”

Oliver shrugged and said, “I just murdered someone with you. I felt like it was pretty safe for you to know.”

Till smiled. “It will always be safe with me.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One step closer to the finale... Thank you for reading, we hope you are enjoying this ride with us! Any feedback is, as always, appreciated.


	7. Treu ihr sein für alle Tage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nein!

Till heard a light rapping at his door. Instantly the sleepiness vanished from his mind and he jumped out of bed. He opened his bedroom door to find a disheveled, yawning Flake holding a little blinking box. Till noticed it was vibrating.

“Sorry to wake you,” Flake said in a hushed voice. “I set up a new silent alarm. I think it’s just malfunctioning but I don’t want to go check by myself.”

Till nodded and grabbed his shoes from beside the bed. “Where did you set it up?”

“It’s a sensor around the back corner of the house-- that spot we couldn’t get the cameras to see properly. I’m trying to get it halfway between a motion sensor and a tripwire sort of thing, but I can’t seem to get it right. It keeps tripping because of leaves and wind.”

Till just nodded again, not really understanding but going along with it anyway. Though he was getting a bit weary of Flake’s continual paranoia and insistence on securing every last inch of their house, he was still thankful for the man’s attention to detail.

They quietly went downstairs, staying alert in case someone had actually broken in. They’d been expecting some sort of retaliation yet again from the Scorpions after their successful assasination, but none had come. Instead of serving to calm everyone, they’d simply gotten more and more jumpy and on edge, Flake especially. Till didn’t blame him.

“So is this like a laser or something?” Till asked as they tiptoed around to the back door.

“Sort of. Think of it like a cross between that and a motion detector.”

They checked the door and found it still locked and secure, so they moved to the window to try and see into that corner. Till had to admit, it was in something of a blind spot, so it was probably wise to have some sort of security measure for it. 

“I don’t see anything from here,” Flake said, craning his neck to try and get a better look. “I’ll have to check outside.”

“All right. I’ll go with you.”

The two unlocked the door and carefully made their way outside, checking the various other security measures they’d installed over the past two months. All were secure and unbothered. 

“I guess it just tripped accidentally,” Flake said as they walked over to the fence in the corner. One of the first things they’d done was install a high fence around the back of the property.

“I guess you might need to turn the sensitivity down or-- Flake, stop,” Till said sharply, grabbing at his arm to halt him.

Flake froze instantly, the buzzing alarm still in hand. Till stared hard at the corner of the fence where a rustling had caught his attention. Flake now saw it too, and tensed up under Till’s grasp. 

“What--” Flake began, but Till silenced him with a gesture to be quiet. He released Flake’s arm and motioned for him to stay put while he inched over to the fence. The rustling continued, and Till saw a pile of leaves being disturbed by something. He creeped forward, finally getting about half a meter away from whatever it was.

A small form exploded out of the leaf pile, causing Till to stagger backward in surprise. Flake yelped and pressed himself against the back door, startled more by Till’s reaction than whatever had made Till jump.

Till laughed suddenly, crouching down and pointing to the leaf pile. “I found your little “intruder,” Flake,” he said, still chuckling.

Warily, Flake walked up behind Till and peered down.

A tiny chipmunk, seemingly unbothered by the two men’s presence, sat contentedly stuffing its cheeks with some fallen nuts from the neighbor’s trees. Flake groaned and put his head in his hand, frustrated by the false alarm. “I suppose I need to adjust it so that small wildlife doesn’t constantly set it off.”

Till said nothing and simply sat back on his heels, enjoying watching the little creature grab as much as it could fit in its mouth. It was quite impressive, Till thought.

“Right, well, thank you for getting up to check on it,” Flake said with a sigh. “I’m going to bed. I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

“Sleep well,” Till said over his shoulder. 

The chipmunk stared at him, having finished his gathering and stuffing. “You remind me of some guy I knew when I was younger,” Till mused, admiring the stripes running all the way from its head down through its tail.

The tiny animal darted away, sliding under the fence through a hole Till was surprised he still fit through with his mouth full of nuts.

“Have a nice dinner,” Till said cheerfully after it as he stood up. He put his hands on his hips and surveyed the backyard, noting all the new security features. In addition to the fence, they had installed cameras that covered almost every corner of the property. Sensors were attached to the fence as well as every window, and they had made a few extra, hidden emergency exits.

They had been very thorough. While Till generally felt pretty safe in their house, there was still the lingering threat of the Scorpions retaliating. It would surprise him greatly if they didn’t, and he was not willing to let his guard down.

Flake had been quite grumpy when Till insisted that he could no longer go on walks alone. In the beginning, while Paul recovered fully, they had all taken turns walking with him, though as soon as Paul was back on his feet, he was the one that somewhat begrudgingly had to go walking with his partner. Fairly often, they came back in, Flake in a great mood, Paul sweaty and exhausted after trying to keep up with the neck-breaking pace of Flake’s long legs.

Till smiled at that thought as he went back inside to catch a few more hours of sleep.

\-- 

The smell of fried bacon seeped out into the hall and living room. “What’s the occasion, Flake?” Till asked, sniffing into the air as he entered the kitchen, looking for the source of the delicious scent.

“I’m making Fleischpfannkuchen to celebrate Paul’s three month anniversary of not being dead,” Flake said, pouring more batter into the pan. “And yes, there will of course be enough for everyone,” he added after seeing Till’s hopeful expression.

Soon after, they were all gathered around the kitchen table digging into Flake’s huge stack of bacon- and meat-filled pancakes. “I think I need to not be dead more often,” Paul said in between two mouthfuls, and even Richard laughed and agreed with him as he took another bite of the tasty breakfast.

“You can come in, Herr Schneider. There should be enough for you, too,” Till said dryly, and a few seconds later, the man appeared in the doorway.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he greeted cheerfully, pulling out a chair for himself at the table.

Flake rolled his eyes, but got out another plate for their boss as well. “Help yourself,” he said, going back to eating.

“Thank you, Flake.”

They ate in silence, but the anticipation hung heavily in the room. Herr Schneider’s visits usually meant something either serious or special. Till was hoping for a new, big assignment. After the assassination attempt they had been laying somewhat low, only doing smaller jobs for a while. He felt like it would do the group good to have something more complex to sink their time into, especially Flake to keep him from going stir crazy.

“So do you have a cool job for us?” Paul blurted out, unable to hold back any longer.

Oliver’s eyes opened wide, Richard looked worriedly at Paul, Flake sighed, and Till studied Herr Schneider to watch for any clues from his expression. Their boss just raised an eyebrow and smiled at Paul while continuing eating. “All in due time. Let’s finish breakfast first,” he said.

Paul pouted a little, but an elbow from Flake made him focus on the food again. For some strange reason, it seemed like they all ate a little faster than before, and Till saw an almost invisible smirk on Schneider’s face.

“So,” Schneider started when all the plates were put away. “As Paul guessed, we have a job.”

Paul raised a fist triumphantly. “I knew it.”

Flake shushed him and Schneider continued with an amused smile, “We’ve gotten some word on a new group that the Scorpions have formed in this area. It seems like it’s something of a test group as they try to expand their Berlin branch. I’ve intercepted some instructions for them to move some expensive equipment from their headquarters in Hanover to the outskirts of Berlin sometime in the next two weeks. I’d like for us to take over that shipment for ourselves. It would disrupt them quite a bit to lose that, and would be a great step for us to continue controlling this area and keeping them out. It would also send a nice message that this is _our_ town.”

“Always nice to remind them who’s in charge,” Flake muttered. Paul nodded emphatically in agreement.

Schneider chimed in, “Indeed. We still need to figure out the details, but from what we’ve gathered so far, it looks like we’ll need someone to talk to the driver when they stop and reroute them, rather than stopping them en route. It’s bound to be heavily armored and guarded. I figured Richard would be the obvious choice for the rerouting. Ideally we can simply redirect the driver, but if necessary, we can take out the driver and guards and Paul can drive the truck instead. We’ll have everyone stationed around just in case-- Oliver taking up point on a roof, Flake and Paul nearby and Till overseeing. I’ll be at a different warehouse with a few of my personal guards awaiting the truck. It should be an easy job, all things considered.”

“I was hoping for a little more excitement than that,” Paul grumbled.

“I wasn’t,” Richard said, glaring at Paul. “Excitement usually means something went wrong.”

“Well, you get to actually _do_ something!” Paul complained.

Richard shrugged. “If you want to talk to the driver, I will happily swap places with you.”

Paul suddenly realised everyone was looking at him. “Never mind,” he said, pretending to look indifferent. “You just do it.”

“All right, that’s settled then,” Schneider said, standing up. “I’ll leave it to you to figure out the details, Till, please keep me updated, and I will contact you as soon as I have an exact date. I will see you soon, gentlemen - and your pancakes were delicious, Flake, thank you.”

Flake inclined his head in humble acknowledgement as the rest of the table bid Schneider goodbye before starting their planning.

\--

Exactly one week later, the gang was stationed and ready. Oliver had set up his rifle with a clear view down from a roof to a guard station outside the Scorpions’ soon-to-be base. It was currently empty, giving the gang the perfect chance to reroute the delivery without fear of alerting the Scorpions to the interruption right away. Still, they’d taken precautions. 

Paul and Flake sat in their getaway car around the block, engine idling and ready to grab Richard and take off if something went wrong. Till was at the corner near the empty warehouse, smoking and keeping an eye on Richard as well. They’d rented a small street sweeper vehicle that sat at the corner with him, allowing Till to pose as a worker taking a smoke break. Schneider had alerted them when the truck had left Hanover, and everything was set up well in advance.

As soon as Paul spotted the van, he picked up the radio. “Dark Mercedes van-- could only see the driver and one guard, but there could be more inside. Stand by; they’ll be with you in a second.”

“In position,” Till and Oliver replied instantly.

“Ready. Going silent now.” Richard straightened his uniform a little, and pretended to read the magazine he had brought. Not long after, he could see the headlights from the van approaching.

Everything seemed to be going according to plan, yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all too easy. It seemed unlikely that anyone would transport something valuable during the middle of the night, as it made them more vulnerable when fewer people were around to witness a potential hit. Then again, he had only started researching Scorpions fairly recently, and they seemed to make questionable decisions quite frequently. It could just be the way they operated. Richard knew they had made many changes to the organisation, especially after Herr Schneider took over Rammstein Group and made sure the rival group paid for the assassination of his predecessor.

Richard stepped out of the small guard booth. As the van drew closer, he signalled for it to stop, and it came to a halt just next to him. “Delivery as planned,” the driver said as he rolled down the window, handing Richard some papers.

Pretending to check the paperwork, Richard made the subtle signal to Oliver that confirmed it was the correct car. “Everything seems to be in order, but I’ve been told to redirect you to another location. The new lock system got delayed, and we wanted to make sure the equipment is safe for the night.”

The driver seemed a little puzzled, but shrugged. “All right,” he said, “where do you need me to go?”

As Richard gave him the address where Herr Schneider was waiting and explained where to drive, he suddenly heard a crackle in his earplug. “It’s a set-up. Abort!” Paul’s shrill voice yelled, accompanied by gunshots. At the same time, the driver rolled his window back up, drove the truck forward and stopped.

“They’re blocking my line of sight with the truck!” Oliver said. “Move, Richard!”

Richard started moving, but the side door of the truck flew up, and two masked men jumped out.

Till drew his gun as he sprinted from his spot on the corner, “I’m coming, Richard, hang on! Oliver, shoot the damn driver!”

“Ballistic glass!” Oliver shouted back two seconds later. “The car is reinforced!”

Till swore violently and fired several shots at the men that had overpowered Richard and were dragging him into the van. Paul and Flake were both screaming as gunshots and the sound of squealing tires echoed in his earpiece as well.

Just as Till reached the van, the door rolled shut, sealing Richard inside with the two masked men. The truck slammed into gear and nearly ran Till over as it quickly backed up. Till heard the crack of Oliver’s rifle and several thunks of bullets embedding into the metal side of the van. Though he knew it was pointless, he screamed and fired his own shots at the windows of the van, hoping somehow they might get through and kill the driver.

They didn’t, and the van rounded the corner away from him. 

“Paul, Flake, what happened?” he asked as he turned and ran around the block to find them. 

Flake’s voice was ragged as he spoke up through the radio, “We got ambushed. A car came through and shot at us.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Oliver?”

“I couldn’t get a shot once the van moved to block Richard. I tried to get the driver but the glass didn’t break. I’m sorry, sir.”

Till swore again as he rounded the corner to find Paul and Flake standing outside their car. Paul was frantically moving around it, checking to see what all had been damaged in the firefight. 

“It’s not driveable,” Paul finally said, his voice as flat as the empty tires on his car. “I don’t even know if the engine is salvageable. They shot it all to hell.”

Flake glanced around them all nervously, then suddenly asked, “Where’s Richard?”

Till’s jaw tightened as he swallowed. “They took him.”

\-- 

The bag over his head made it hard to breathe. Richard sat lodged in between the two men who had grabbed him as they drove him away. Silently, he tried to count the turns and listen for any clues to where they might take him, but the sound of his breath seemed so loud that it was hard to make out anything.

After a while, the van stopped and he was hauled out. Richard thought he could smell the faint scent of water, as if they were near a river or lake, but he couldn’t be sure. Then again, a lot of Berlin was near water, but the thought of trying to collect at least some kind of information on where he was, helped him stay calm.

Soon after, he was dragged into a building. Richard heard one of his assailants talk quietly, presumably making a phone call. “Yeah, we got one of them. The small one with glasses. No, the other small one. All right, we’ll just keep him downstairs until you get here. Ok.”

Richard felt a boot kick into his back to make him move. He stumbled forward, only to get roughly pulled up by his arms. “Let’s go,” he heard a gruff voice say, and the men holding him started walking, forcing him to walk with them down what sounded like an empty hall, based on the echoes of their boots. Counting steps, he was suddenly yanked to the side and pushed down on the floor where the hood was pulled off him. Richard blinked, blinded by the sudden light while the door behind him was shut and bolted.

He was in a cell.

Memories from when he had been imprisoned and tortured flashed through his head. Gasping for air, Richard curled up on the cold, concrete floor and closed his eyes, trying as hard as he could not to panic.

“They will come for me,” he whispered desperately to himself, “I know they will. They have to.”

\-- 

“How the fuck could your sources pass this on as credible intel? This should never have happened! We walked straight into a trap like some _Schwachköpfe_!” Till was fuming, stomping back and forth in the living room like a raging bull.

Herr Schneider sat in a chair looking worried, tapping his fingers on the armrest. “The information came from credible sources. We cross checked everything, and we found nothing to suspect foul play. This must go all the way to the top of the Scorpions, because they have used a lot of resources and involved a lot of people to make it happen.”

“Why does it matter how they did it? They took Richard! We need to get him back!” Paul said frantically.

Oliver sat on the sofa with Müllchen perched on his shoulder, listening to the others. “Well,” he said once there was a pause long enough for him to speak. “At least we know that they won’t kill him straight away, and that means we will most likely have an opportunity to get him back.”

“How do you know that? Poor Richard could already be dead!” Paul whined.

Flake put a comforting hand on Paul’s thigh. “If they were out to kill him, they would have done that on the spot. They took him for a reason. I am afraid that reason must be me.”

Till stopped pacing. “Flake,” he said brusquely. “Give us an update on your pharmaceutical project. We need as much information as possible to see if there is any of that we can use as leeway when they contact us.”

“There isn’t that much to tell,” Flake said, scratching his cheek. “I pulled out all of my research when I started working with this group. I didn’t want the constant reminder of my past life and family hanging over my head every time it got brought up. I finally got the paperwork finished a few weeks ago…” his voice trailed off as realization hit him.

Everyone else seemed to draw the same conclusion as well.

“That explains it, then,” Schneider said simply. “The Scorpions realized the information wouldn’t be available any longer except from Flake himself. That’s why they tried to kill you before; they thought your drug research was still floating around and they didn’t need you.”

“Now they do,” Till said. “That’s why they have Richard; I’d bet my life on it. They don’t need _him_ , they just need a bargaining chip.”

Schneider nodded stoically. 

“How do we get him back?” Paul asked, grabbing Flake’s hand protectively. “We’re not giving them Flake, obviously.” 

“No, we are not,” Schneider said. “But we’ve drawn the short stick here. We need a new plan of action, and we need it quickly, before they start their demands. Flake, I’ll need you to set up recording equipment for when they inevitably call. See if we can trace their location as well, but at bare minimum we need to record the call.”

“Yes sir,” Flake said, and stood up to do so immediately. Paul tried to follow but Schneider stopped him.

“Paul, go with Oliver and retrieve another car. I have one waiting at my headquarters, as well as a shipment of weapons for you. We need to prepare for an attack, even if there isn’t one. They’ve caught us unprepared already; it will not happen again.”

Paul nodded soberly. For once he wasn’t inclined to joke around.

“Till, keep on your investigation into where they might have taken Richard,” Schneider said. “I need a list of the likeliest places as soon as possible. That will help direct our next moves.”

“Yes sir,” Till responded.

“I’ll do everything I can on my end to find him as well,” Schneider assured everyone as they went their separate ways. “Let’s meet up at the office in one hour. We’ll get him back; I swear it.”

\-- 

The concrete floor was cold. Richard opened his eyes, his breath still fast, but he had managed to calm himself down from the initial panic of being locked up in a cell again. The room was fairly small. A naked lightbulb in the ceiling was the only source of light. There was a hole in the floor that served as a toilet, and there was no furniture, only a dirty mattress in a corner.

Richard’s limbs ached as he slowly started moving. Crawling onto the mattress, he let his body sink down into it. Another wave of anxiety flushed over him as he smelled the too-familiar smell of mold and old sweat. A burn mark on the greying foam made him instinctively clutch the scars on his arms, and he felt it, the searing pain of the cigarettes, the red hot utensils against his skin, the smell of burned flesh…

Richard grit his teeth and curled up into a fetal position, tears burning behind his eyelids. You survived once, you can do it again, he told himself, again and again.

He wasn’t sure if he actually believed it.

\--

Paul chewed at a fingernail nervously. Flake tried to rub a comforting hand along his back, but he was just as nervous as his partner. All of the recording equipment was set up and working; all they had to do was push a button when the call came through. They’d not been able to get anything to trace the call, but Schneider supposed it wouldn’t have worked anyway. The Scorpions weren’t stupid enough to let something as simple as that work to find them.

They’d received notice about a call an hour before, and were told to wait for it. Schneider had not left their office for even a moment, haunting the halls and rooms with his protective, watchful gaze while they worked. Paul and Oliver had fetched the new car and weapons, stowing them nearby. Paul had also put together several explosive traps, should they have need of them, and kept them close at hand just in case.

Till had done his best to pinpoint possible locations, but there were so many likely spots that his map looked like he’d sprinkled polka dots across it. The Scorpions had done very well with their kidnapping, ensuring there was no singular place they could be tracked to. 

Oliver fiddled with his handgun, the only sign that he was nervous as well as he rubbed a spot on the barrel again and again. Everyone had taken up their own spots in Till’s office to wait for the inevitable call.

The phone on Till’s desk suddenly rang, filling the room with the high-pitched chiming. Everyone sat up straight. Schneider took a deep breath, then pushed a button on the phone as Flake booted up the recording equipment.

“Hello,” Schneider answered, his voice taught and firm.

“Good morning,” a crackly voice came over the phone speaker for everyone to hear. “I will not waste your time, as I’m sure you’re quite busy. We have your communications expert, and we want your drug information. This will be a very simple transaction. Give us Flake Lorenz and we will give back Richard Kruspe.”

“Fuck you!” Paul suddenly screamed at the telephone, gripping Flake’s arm like his life depended on it. “Go to hell!”

There was dead silence in the room and over the phone as everyone sat in shock over Paul’s outburst.

The phone crackled again, “I see. Well, if that’s your stance, there isn’t much to negotiate then, is there? Have a nice day.”

A click announced that the Scorpion’s spokesperson had hung up on them.

\--

Richard screamed in pain as one of the men holding him in place deftly broke one of his fingers; at least, he screamed as well as he could through the gag that had been stuffed into his mouth earlier. 

The man who’d just been on the phone with Herr Schneider had unleashed a volley of curses when he hung up, furious that he-- Klaus, the man in charge of this whole operation-- had been told to “fuck off” in the middle of a negotiation. As soon as he’d ended the call, he’d turned to Richard and punched him square in the face out of anger. Richard hadn’t even flinched, though his eye was spectacularly bruised from the blow.

“Unbelievable,” Klaus said again, pacing the room. “It’s as if they don’t care whatsoever about their man. If they don’t care about him, why do we? Much easier to just kill him and try something else, I guess.”

At that, the man stalked back over to Richard, who did flinch away this time. Tears streaked down his face as he tried to catch his breath, his hand flashing hot bursts of pain from the broken bone. 

“Karl-Heinz, have some fun with him,” Klaus said, waving a hand dismissively. “Then kill him. I’ll figure out what we can do instead of bargaining.”

Richard’s eyes widened, and after a bit of struggling, managed to move aside the rag stuffed in his mouth so he could yell out, “Wait! I can help you!”

Klaus raised an eyebrow as one of the men punched Richard in the gut for freeing his mouth. Richard gasped for air from the blow as he bent forward. Klaus raised a hand for the guard to pause his assault. “What do you mean? You’d better not be wasting my time.”

Richard shook his head, still trying to catch his breath. He wheezed, “No sir. I know how you can get your information.”

“And this isn’t just you begging for your life? I find that hard to believe.”

“They won’t give you Flake,” Richard said. “Even if they wanted to, Paul wouldn’t let them. But Flake can be convinced to give you the information; I’m sure of it.”

Klaus at least seemed interested. That was good. “And why should I believe you?”

Richard swallowed, fighting back the pain from his hand. “Because I can get it for you. And if I don’t, then you can kill me.”

Klaus stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Interesting… I suppose the only thing I can lose here is time, and it would be quite convenient not to be forced to come up with another plan for this operation. Very well. How do you believe you can get this information?”

Richard had to think quickly. He _had_ mostly been bluffing and stalling for time, but the more he thought about it, the more he actually believed he could convince his gang to hand over at least part of the information the Scorpions wanted. In so doing, hopefully he could also secretly relay his own information to help them figure out where he was, as well as buy precious time.

“I need to talk to them.” Richard worked hard to make sure his voice was calm and clear. “Just get me on the phone with them, and I will work it out.”

Klaus thought for a moment, then nodded. “One phone call. Better not be bluffing, or that will be your last.” 

\--

Paul was alternating between miserably shaking his head and burying it in his hands. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he kept repeating, even though no one was really listening to him anymore. They’d not yelled at him, but their silence was just as damning.

“Since the bargaining avenue is likely now closed to us,” Schneider said with a sigh, “I guess the next step is just trying to find Richard before they kill him.”

Paul made a distraught noise at that, but again, everyone continued to ignore him. 

“There are so many places,” Till said, scouring the map he’d marked. “If we had any clue at all, this might be easier, but we have nothing.”

“I’ll drive to every single one of them myself,” Paul said, trying to mitigate his guilt. “I don’t care how long it takes.”

“You might have to,” Schneider said, finally acknowledging the man. “I really can’t think of many other ways to do this. They covered their tracks too well this time.”

Flake had finished with the recording equipment and handed Schneider a cd. “It’s not much,” he apologized. “There was nothing I could find in the recording to give any idea where they are. The quality was too poor, probably purposefully so.”

Schneider sighed again but nodded as he took the disc. “Thank you. I’ll send this over and see if any of my other men can analyze it further.”

“We need to do _something,_ ” Oliver said, still fingering his pistol nervously. Normally, sitting around and waiting was his forte, but this was very different.

“I can just start driving and try to see--”

The shrill ringing of Till’s telephone cut through Paul’s offer, startling everyone. Schneider put up a hand for them all to be silent, then hit a button as Flake hurriedly reset the recording equipment.

“Hello?” Schneider answered, attempting to keep his voice cool.

“Hey, it’s Richard,” their friend’s static-covered voice came over the phone speaker.

Before Paul could even think to say anything, Flake clapped his hand over his mouth and glared harshly at him. The rest of the gang sat in stunned silence.

“It’s good to hear from you, Richard,” Schneider said, again keeping his own voice level. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m ok. I feel like I’ve been thrown down the river, but I’ll be ok. Look, the Scorpions are only letting me talk to you so you know I’m alive, and convince you to give them the drug information. They don’t want Flake himself, just the research. Can you meet up to do an exchange?”

Schneider was hurriedly scribbling some notes to himself as he answered, “Of course, Richard. I assume they’ll be transferring you to us as well once we give them the information?”

They heard someone muttering in the background but couldn’t make it out, then Richard spoke again, slightly more downcast, “Yeah, they said they will. They’re going to email you the details for a meeting. Take care, guys.”

There was some shuffling over the phone, and then the voice from before was heard again, “Looking forward to concluding this business with you, Herr Rammstein.”

The phone clicked as the man hung up. Everyone sat quietly for a few moments, processing the phone call. Flake removed his hand from Paul’s mouth, but Paul didn’t even seem to notice.

“It has to be a setup,” Flake said. “Why would they simply hand Richard over for the information when they can just take it at the meeting? All of this is on their terms; they’re bound to have people lying in wait when we show up. They might just kill us all.”

“Their terms is better than no terms at all,” Till reminded. “We didn’t even have terms five minutes ago.”

“Flake is correct, though,” Schneider said thoughtfully. “They almost certainly won’t bring Richard to the meeting. We need to expect the worst here.”

Paul was still sitting quietly, an unusual thing for him. Flake glanced over, concerned. “You all right, Paul? Sorry I closed your mouth like that.”

“River,” Paul mumbled. “Why did Richard say that thing about the river? He always corrects my expressions when I say them wrong; why did he say one that made no sense?”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Flake asked, tempted to check Paul for a fever. “What river?”

Till spoke up, “He did sound strange at the beginning of the call. Is that what you mean?”

“No, he said something about a river. Flake, play back the call, please?”

Schneider handed the cd he got from Flake over to Till, who stuck it in the computer and played it.

“Hey, it’s Richard,” the call began. Silence for a few moments, and then, “Yeah, yeah, I’m ok. I feel like I’ve been thrown down the river, but I’ll be ok.”

“There,” Paul said, and Till stopped the playback. “What the hell is “thrown down the river”? That’s not a real expression.”

“He was probably at gunpoint, Paul,” Flake said, slightly irritated. “You can’t expect proper grammar from someone about to be shot.”

“No, I think he’s right,” Till said. “The Scorpions would have been watching and paying attention to him during the call. He wouldn’t be able to like, tap out Morse code or anything to us. But he’s smart, and I’m sure he wanted to try and tell us _something_. He wouldn’t waste an opportunity like that, and he wouldn’t just give up either.”

Schneider had steepled his fingers and placed them over his mouth thoughtfully. “Till, give me that map you marked, please.”

Till handed it over to his boss, who stared at it for a moment. “There are several places here that you’ve marked that follow along the Spree and Havel rivers, but if you look here in the west where the two rivers meet, there are two spots that are where you might consider to be “down” the river.”

Till studied the map, and Oliver, Paul, and Flake all craned their necks to see as well. “Do you think he could have been trying to tell us where he was?”

“I’m almost positive that’s what he did,” Paul asserted. “He wouldn’t have said that weird phrase for no reason.”

Schneider gave Paul a hard look for a moment, then nodded. “I think you’re right, Paul. Good work.”

Instead of beaming at the praise like he normally would, Paul just nodded back in acknowledgement. It didn’t mitigate the guilt he felt over ruining the first phone call, but it helped. 

“Well, we have our work cut out for us, then,” Schneider said. “Once I get the details for the meeting, which will surely be soon since I doubt they want us to prepare for it, we’ll need to split up. Some of us will go to the meeting, the rest will scout those locations to try and find Richard and free him. Let’s get to it, gentlemen.”

\--

Richard sat huddled up in the corner of his cell. His head was aching, and his finger was swollen and discoloured, pulsating pain radiating all the way up his arm. He had managed to set the finger somewhat back in place, and had torn strips off his shirt so he could bind it to keep it from moving too much.

Then again, he knew that a broken finger would be nothing if his team didn’t come through for him. He realised that there was no way he could talk or fight his way out. There were way too many of them. Richard also knew that they would dispose of him as soon as they had what they wanted. That was just how things worked.

All he could do was hope that they’d gotten his hint in the phone call. Richard had carefully worded himself in order not to raise suspicion. He just hoped he hadn’t concealed the message so well that his own team wouldn’t understand it either. Even if they did, it was not a given that they would find him. He might not even be right about his location. All he had to base it on, was the van movements and the smell outside the building he was in. It was not much - but it was more than nothing.

The wait was torturous. Richard’s thoughts kept going back to jail, where he would lie and wait for them to come get him again, for another round of pure hell. The only thing on his mind had been not to talk, to keep pretending he didn’t know anything, that he was not a part of a team, which had even been partly true as he worked as an independent contractor. It had been something worth fighting for.

But now, there was no cause. Even if they killed him, he would not have saved his team. Scorpions would still go after Flake and his information, and he would die for nothing: a worthless, pathetic death.

Richard swallowed, closed his eyes, and thought of his team. He had been sceptical when Herr Rammstein approached him with an offer to be a part of it, and he had accepted on the condition that he could leave whenever he wanted, without any repercussions. At the start, he had been uncomfortable living with so many people, and Paul especially got on his nerves a lot.

He had not realised how fond he had grown of them all - even Paul. Subconsciously, Richard clutched his broken finger, hard. It hurt less than the thought of not seeing his team again.

\-- 

Flake fiddled anxiously with the bulletproof vest under his shirt. Herr Schneider had taken no chances this time around, and though their preparation time was extremely short-- less than an hour from the time they received the email until they were supposed to be at the meeting spot-- he had managed to find vests for both Paul and Flake. 

“They know better than to shoot me,” Schneider reassured when Flake voiced his concern about them only having two vests. “All hell would break loose, and they’d not be alive more than a day at best if they did that.”

While Schneider, Paul, and Flake drove to the designated meeting spot, Till and Oliver were driving to scout out the two possible hideouts, and hopefully rescue their friend while the Scorpions were busy with the information exchange. 

The first spot they found was completely abandoned, and after a quick run through, Oliver confirmed it wasn’t the right place. The second spot was a small warehouse directly next to the river. While at first glance it also seemed empty, Oliver’s keen eyes spotted a guard barely visible inside a back door. 

“This might be it,” Till said, relief overwhelming him. “Let’s see if we can get in quietly.”

They parked the car further down the street and hurried back to the warehouse. With a quick movement, Oliver shot the guard at the door before he even realized he wasn’t alone. The silencer on Oliver’s pistol ensured no one else heard the shot, and Till moved the body out of view while Oliver began sweeping room by room. There were only three other guards in the building, and he managed to down two of them almost as easily as the first, though the last one gave him a bit of a struggle.

\--

Loud voices startled Richard. Was it already time? He heard some noises he couldn’t fully make out, then the sound of footsteps approaching his cell.

Richard felt his breath quickening and his pulse rising. He curled up into a ball when he heard the sound of the door being unbolted, and braced himself for what was to come.

\--

“He’s in here!” Till called as he opened a door to a small, windowless cell. Richard lay on a filthy mattress, and raised his head weakly when Till burst into the room. 

“You came for me,” he whispered as Till ran over to him. 

“Of course we did,” Till said in a soothing voice, checking him over quickly. “You’re our brother; we don’t leave our brothers behind. Are you okay? That eye doesn’t look so good.”

Richard grimaced as he raised his hand. “They roughed me up and broke a finger, but I’m okay.”

Till growled out angry curses as he checked Richard’s makeshift bandage. “We need to have you checked out just in case, but first, we need to get out of here. Can you walk?

“Yeah,” Richard responded, staggering to his feet with Till’s help.

Oliver poked his head in the room. “Good to see you, Richard,” he said, a slightly worried look on his face at the sight of Richard’s black eye. Though when Richard gave him a quick smile, he smiled back. “I’ve cleared out the rest of the warehouse. They didn’t leave many people here.”

“Good. Let’s go, then,” Till said. “I have a feeling Herr Schneider and the others are going to need some backup, especially when they figure out Richard’s gone.”

\-- 

The meeting spot was an open park area on a small hill by Havel River, connected to an afternoon recreation centre for children. It was early still, but the sky had started to lighten up. After getting an overview of the area, Schneider was fairly confident that they would not be ambushed. There was still the off chance that the Scorpions could just drive up and mow them down, but he doubted it. Even Scorpions knew how devastating a full-blown gang war would be.

Flake tightened his grip on the box in his hands, which contained his life’s work on a set of CDs. The information on them already caused the death of his wife and his daughter, and now it could end up causing the death of Richard as well. It almost made him sick to think about how much pain his painkillers had created, and giving it all up would almost be a relief.

Both Flake and Paul stiffened as a car with darkened windows pulled up, and a very well-dressed man stepped out and approached them.

“Good morning,” Klaus greeted brusquely. They recognized his voice from their earlier phone call. “Thank you for meeting on such short notice. If you have the research, we can go right ahead and get this over with.”

Schneider inclined his head politely in greeting, then nudged Flake. “We have it right here,” Schneider said as Flake held up the box.

“Excellent. We’ll of course be testing to make sure it’s legitimate, then you can be on your way.

After a glance at Schneider to make sure it was okay for him to speak, Paul asked, “What about Richard?”

“In time,” the man said dismissively. “The information first, please.”

As he’d been instructed to do earlier by Schneider, Flake opened the box and removed a CD, handing it to the Scorpion gang member.

“Thank you. Now give us just a moment to analyze it and confirm it’s what we’re looking for.” He turned back to the car and handed the cd through the window to his associate and waited. As he did so, his cell phone rang.

“Excuse me a moment,” the man said as he stepped away slightly to take the call. 

As he did so, Schneider glanced down at his pager that had just buzzed an alert. “Got him,” was all it said, and Schneider smiled faintly. Till and Oliver had succeeded in finding and rescuing Richard, then. That made the current situation significantly less stressful for them. He nodded at both Flake and Paul, who looked relieved as well, though they said nothing.

Sudden cursing drew their attention back to Klaus, who had drawn his gun and thrown his cell phone angrily to the ground. He pointed the pistol at Flake as he said, “I don’t know how the hell you found him, but this changes nothing. Give me the box, _now_.” He cocked the pistol and leveled it threateningly at a now-trembling Flake.

Before Schneider could open his mouth to calm the man’s anger and assure him they would cooperate, Paul snatched the box from Flake’s hand and aimed his own gun at it. “Get the fuck back or I’ll destroy the damn discs,” Paul said, his tone one that Flake had never heard before. He was in awe of Paul’s sudden bravery, pulling all the attention away from Flake and to himself.

Klaus’s mouth fell open in surprise. Three other men who’d been in the car jumped out, aiming their guns at the trio. Schneider calmly withdrew his pistol as well, but didn’t aim at anyone.

“Gentlemen,” Schneider said smoothly, “there’s no need for all of this. We will give you the information. Paul,” he turned his attention to his gang member, “Give me the box.”

Paul shook his head stubbornly. “They’ll kill us,” he insisted. “This box is the only reason we’re still alive.”

“Paul,” Schneider’s voice was still calm, but an edge creeped into it. “Give me the box.”

“Please just do what he says,” Flake begged in a hushed whisper to his partner.

Just as Paul was about to protest further, tires squealing drew everyone’s attention away from the standoff. Till, Oliver and Richard slammed their car to a stop as Till screamed, “Run!”

Everyone moved at once, ducking and running for cover. Half of the Scorpions began shooting at Till’s car while the others began shooting at Schneider, Flake, and Paul. The three sprinted to some trees at the riverbank that gave them decent cover. Flake crouched down, making himself as small as possible and cradling the box that Paul had dropped next to him.

“Get the box!” Klaus yelled, and one of the Scorpions started moving towards Paul.

“Stay down, Flake!” Paul commanded.

Paul got off several good shots, managing to slow down the Scorpion coming their way, who cursed loudly as he took a hit to the shoulder. Meanwhile, Schneider and Oliver picked off one gangster each, and they could see the rising frustration and desperation on Klaus’s face as he managed to leap back into his car.

“Let him go,” Schneider advised as the car drove toward the remaining, injured Scorpion. “They won’t be back.”

Klaus stopped the car just long enough for the last gang member who gripped his shoulder as he jumped into the back seat. Schneider and Paul both lowered their guns as the car began to drive off.

“Now they’ll go back with a nice story to tell--” Schneider began, but his sentence cut off as two final cracks pierced the air. He staggered backward, his hand clutching at his head that was now pouring blood, and Paul saw the wounded Scorpion had leaned out of the car window to get off a few final departing shots.

Oliver was lightning fast, shooting the wounded Scorpion directly in the face before he could lean back in. Flooring the car, Klaus took off with a few more shots from Oliver hitting the back windshield as he managed to get away, the dead gang member hanging limp out the window.

“Herr Schneider!” Flake screamed as their boss’ legs buckled under him. His limp body dropped down the long fall before Paul or Flake could catch him, and crashed into the murky water of the river. They scanned the water desperately, waiting for any glimpse of their leader, but none came. Till, Oliver and Richard came running over, but there was still no sign of Schneider. The only remnants of him were a few scuffed footprints and a puddle of dark blood in the dirt.

Herr Rammstein was gone.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all our readers who have followed our gangster boys that we have come to love through their journey: We have appreciated every comment and every kudo. Thank you so much.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone, it's Niko! Yet another collab between Wahnsinn and I, but this time it was a 10 hour writing marathon when we were both unmotivated to write on our own. 
> 
> We hope you like it, and please let us know if you'd like this AU to continue!


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